


Meet You in Idaho

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel is supportive, Dean is struggling with his sexuality, Episode Tag, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV Alternating, Switching, Torture, Trials of Heaven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 93,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if Castiel can’t live in the bunker as long as Ezekiel is healing Sam, it doesn’t mean that Dean can’t stay in touch with the fallen angel. So staying in touch with Cas is exactly what Dean does. In more ways than he originally expected.</p><p>This goes AU after the events of <i>Heaven Can't Wait</i>. The differences from canon are practically nonexistent at first but they will be very major in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel agree on the fact that they should meet again.

After working that crazy psycho “hands of mercy” angel case together, Dean is very conscientious about keeping in touch with Castiel. Seeing him in that Gas-N-Sip in Idaho, lonely and disillusioned, quickly convinced Dean that even if Cas can’t be present in Dean’s life physically, it would be a major dick move on Dean’s part to exclude the fallen angel from his life completely.

They talk on the phone practically every day and each phone call is more relaxed and natural than the one before. By the end of the second week of their daily talks, it almost feels like the old good days, like the gap between them has gradually closed, the wounds mended.

Right now, Dean’s comfortably stretched out on the bed in his room, one arm folded under his head, phone in the other hand, Castiel’s gruff voice talking into his ear, recounting a funny story about a regular customer who forgets her wallet at home every single time and always has to go back for it: “So I suggested she leave her wallet at the store. I said I’d keep an eye on it for her. She hit me with her umbrella and walked away, but she forgot the wallet at the counter.”

Dean laughs until he feels tears pooling in his eyes. When he collects himself enough to be able to speak again, he says, “I bet you just ran after her and gave it back to her, you good Samaritan.”

“Of course I did,” Cas sounds almost affronted that Dean would even suggest otherwise. “I may be no angel, but I try to be a good man.”

Dean can feel his lips curving into a proud smile. “You are, buddy.”

Cas doesn’t say anything to that, but Dean can still hear him breathing on the other end of the line, so he just listens to that, strangely content.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Several more beats of silence, then a deep breath is drawn. “Will you… when will I see you again?”

It’s a rude awakening, a cruel reminder of reality. They aren’t as close as Dean would want them to be, Cas can’t be in the bunker and as long as Zeke is healing Sam, that’s not gonna change.

But that doesn’t mean Dean can’t still see his friend. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he says finally. “How about I stop by sometime at the end of the week? We could… do something. Hang out,” he adds stupidly.

But Cas doesn’t seem to mind Dean’s lack of eloquence. “I would like that.”

“Okay. See you in a couple of days, then.”

Later, when Dean leaves his room to make himself some dinner, he meets Sam in the kitchen and is asked what’s got him smiling like an idiot.

***

The following few days feel like they’re dragging on for years, which could of course be blamed on the incredibly boring research on Elamite – because they’re not going to take Crowley’s claim that Metatron’s spell is irreversible at face value. That means Dean has learned more about extinct languages in the past two weeks than ever before, which, okay, isn’t really saying much, but it’s still boring as hell.

One of the few bright moments of each day are those whiles where Dean and Cas talk on the phone, even when their conversations mostly revolve around Castiel’s work and some deliberately vague mentions of Metatron’s spell. Dean doesn’t want Cas to know there’s no way to reverse it until they’re absolutely sure. Or never. The poor guy already has enough on his plate, he doesn’t need any more blame on top of what he must be already feeling.

***

After pulling up at the Gas-N-Sip, Dean stays sitting behind the wheel, glancing at his watch occasionally. Cas’s shift will be over in ten minutes and Dean doesn’t want to see him inside, wearing that vest and a customer-friendly smile, even though he knows in Cas’s case, the smile isn’t fake at all. He just can’t stand seeing Cas like this.

It’s not like Dean looks down on the people who work at places like this one; he’s spent most of his life on the road after all and he knows that getting a hot coffee and a warm smile can do real wonders when your mind is numb and your back stiff after a long day’s journey.

He also understands why Cas likes the job, because it’s a fairly simple one – although Dean doesn’t doubt it’s pretty exhausting – compared to anything Cas had to do before. The fallen angel probably thinks this is something he can’t possibly screw up, that’s why he’s holding onto it like grim death. Of course, Dean knows that you can actually screw up everything – weak coffee should be punishable by death, if you ask him – but he’s not going to burst Cas’s bubble about it.

But despite all the good – or at least neutral – stuff that can be said about working at a convenience store, Dean _knows_ this isn’t right, this isn’t what Castiel should be doing. It feels like wasted potential, wasted knowledge, wasted skills… yeah, a lot of possibilities have been wasted lately when it comes to Cas.

Dean is going to fix at least some of it, though.

Another quick glance at the watch tells him it’s time. He gets out of the car, slams the door closed and moves towards the Gas-N-Sip just as he spots Castiel coming out of the building. For some strange reason, Dean’s heart starts pounding wildly and butterflies start dancing in his stomach, which is actually something that’s been happening to him a lot lately. If it wasn’t for the fact that it only seems to happen before he's about to see Cas or talk to him on the phone, he’d be seriously worried about his health.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets him once they’re within talking distance. He’s wearing jeans and a white shirt, the two top buttons popped open like before his ‘date’ with Nora, and he doesn’t have that hideous vest, thank God. “It’s good to see you again.”

Dean can’t help responding to Cas’s smile with one of his own. “Yeah, you too.” He pats him on the shoulder and gives him a push in the Impala’s direction. “Now, the important question is: do you know any good spots in the neighborhood?”

“I do,” Cas nods, surprising Dean who considered the question purely rhetorical. “I have thoroughly investigated all the bars and restaurants in the vicinity and I believe I have determined the one you would find most satisfactory.”

This actually makes Dean stop in his tracks and gape at the former angel. “You went bar hopping?” Then, as his brain takes the new information in slowly, piece by piece, he adds, “Without me?”

“I didn’t do any bar hopping,” Cas says and Dean finds himself relaxing slightly. “I merely asked Nora and some of the regular customers about their favorite places and then I made a list of the ones that sounded most suitable to your liking. I only went to take a look at those so I could find the best one.”

“Wow. That’s…” Dean scratches the top of his head as he resumes walking. “That’s pretty cool. Thanks, Cas.” It’s such a thoughtful thing to do, really, and now he feels kind of ashamed he didn’t come up with something like that for Cas. But, hey, what should he have done? Bring a bouquet? Yeah, ridiculous.

“I wanted you to enjoy yourself tonight,” Cas explains as he gets into the Impala.

Even as he turns the ignition key, Dean doesn’t fail to notice the way the fallen angel’s hands run over the upholstery, slow and loving, like reacquainting with an old friend. Cass missed Dean’s Baby! There’s a big, goofy grin on Dean’s face as he realizes the fact, but he’s perfectly okay with that. “So, where to?”

*

Cas was right, Dean likes this place. The bar is cozy, with big wooden tables and comfy chairs, none of that café crap with tiny round tables with glass table tops where you can’t even fit two cups of coffee and there’s no space to stretch your legs.

The beer here is pretty good, too, and the waitress kind of reminds Dean of Ellen. She’s all business, kind of motherly and she doesn’t seem the type that would let you get away with causing any ruckus in her bar. Actually, the whole place makes him think of the Roadhouse, but he’s surprised to realize the memories don’t hurt as much as they used to, more sweet than bitter now.

“You like it here,” Cas observes from his seat across the table, one hand wrapped casually around a half-empty beer mug. He has this content, almost smug look on his face, like he’s proud he made the right choice.

“I do,” Dean agrees just to see that content look turn into a full-blown smile, and also because it’s true. “But honestly, I think I’d be happy right now even if you took me to a vegan bakery,” he admits, surprising himself as well as Cas with how talkative and unreserved he is. He’s only had two beers so far, for Christ’s sake.

Castiel nods gratefully and then his expression gets more serious. “I would never do something like that to you, Dean.” He says it like he’s swearing allegiance, like he’s taking a holy vow.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean laughs. “And I thank you for that.”

Any further conversation is interrupted when the Ellen-esque waitress brings them their meals, carefully picked by Dean for both of them. She sets the bucket of hot wings, bowl of fried onions and French fries on the table with an “Enjoy” and leaves, hips swaying.

Castiel eyes the food with interest that wasn’t there when he was still an angel, but he doesn’t do anything else. That’s not how you treat good food. Dean grabs a hot wing, dips it in one of the sauces at random and takes a bite. “It’s really good,” he says, mouth full. “Come on, man. Dig in before I eat it all.”

That seems to do the trick because Cas follows Dean’s example and tries a hot wing, dipped in the same sauce Dean used. He takes a small bite and chews, eyes closed, reminding Dean of the culinary experts he’s seen on television. Finally he swallows and smiles at Dean. “It is very good.”

For a while, they don’t really talk much, enjoying the food, the beer and each other’s company. Dean ends up finishing the fries while Cas asks how Dean’s week was (even though he already knows that, seeing as they talked every night on the phone), how the Impala is running (even though he can’t possibly have any clue what any of the components Dean finds himself talking about are for), how did Dean enjoy the food (even though Dean made that pretty clear by the satisfied noises he made while eating). It’s a bit weird, but the questions are actually thoughtful and Dean doesn’t mind answering.

It gets weirder when they’re about to leave and Cas insists on paying for both of them so vehemently that Dean has no other choice but to oblige.

Then Cas holds the door open for Dean as they walk out, and in the cool night air Dean’s slowly working brain finally catches up with everything that’s happened, connecting the dots between tonight and the last time Dean saw Cas, when they were sitting in the Impala in front of Nora’s house and Dean was giving Cas dating advice.

 _Lose the vest._ Check.

 _And now your buttons – why don’t you unbutton it?_ Check.

 _Always open the door for her, okay?_ Check.

 _Ask a lot of questions_. Check.

 _And if she says she’s happy to go Dutch, she’s lying_. Check.

All the pieces of this Cas-shaped puzzle come together and for the second time that day, Dean stops in his tracks to stare at Castiel who just stares back expectantly, his face illuminated by a lamppost. “Uh… Cas?”

“Yes?” Castiel keeps staring at him, so damn calm and composed, almost serene. It is in moments like this that Dean is reminded he’s not dealing with an ordinary human; Castiel is older and more experienced than Dean can even imagine. And still he chooses to spend his free night with Dean.

“Is this…” Dean licks his lips, swallows nervously and starts again. “Is this a date?”

Cas tilts his head to one side in that distinctive, unique way. “Would you be opposed to it?”

That’s a good question, a big, important question that shouldn’t be answered in some back alley in Rexford, Idaho, but a question that has to be answered now that it’s been asked nevertheless.

The problem is Dean doesn’t really know what to say.

He’s just been asked out. On a date. On a date with Cas, who is a guy. As in, a man. Which Dean is also. A man, that is.

God, this is confusing. We’re talking about Dean fucking Winchester here, the man who’d sleep with any girl with a pulse, the man who drives a muscle car and wears jeans and flannel and drinks beer and can take apart a gun blindfolded.

Only if Dean is honest with himself, he has to admit there actually haven’t been that many girls in his life recently. Actually, more like _none_ at all in the past two years.

Also, he can’t deny that there’s been a fair number of times when he looked at a guy and thought “He’s kinda hot,” and admittedly, more than half of these times the guy in question was Cas, but… Thinking about something and actually doing it are two completely different things.

It’s kinda like when Dean would see a cool sports car and think “Nice ride” – it’s always just a passing comment and in no way does it mean he’s cheating on his Baby.

The same can be said about this… _thing_ with Cas, right? Cas _is_ attractive, Dean would have to be blind not to have noticed that, and he’s also the one who saved Dean from eternal damnation, so there’s bound to be some deeper connection between them, a _profound bond_ as Cas once said. But that’s all there is.

Ah, hell, who is he kidding here? Dean snorts and shakes his head.

Thinking about his feelings or personal relationships isn’t one of Dean’s strong suits, he avoids having to do it as much as he can, which means when he's actually forced to do it, it usually takes him a long time before he reaches a decision. He might be mulling over Castiel’s question for _hours_ , but that scenario is luckily prevented when Cas asks, sounding worried, “Dean? Are you alright?”

Blinking a few times to clear his head, Dean takes in the face of the man standing in front of him, tries to contemplate what that face, that voice, those crystal blue eyes boring into him with unparalleled intensity mean to him. A couple of words come to his mind – _mine_ and _please stay_ and _safe_ and _always_. But mostly _mine_. And also _yours_.

“Dean?” Castiel asks again, regarding him with that mix of concern and confusion and omniscience that is so typically him.

Dean likes seeing that expression, just as he likes seeing Cas smile, or even better, laugh. He likes to hear Cas’s voice, he likes being close to Cas, he likes spending time with Cas. He likes Cas, period.

Quickly, Dean goes over his life, over all the crazy shit he pulled, all the messes he’d gotten himself into and lived. He survived Hell and Purgatory, he stepped between the Devil and a pissed off archangel bent on killing each other, he faced monsters and demons all his life. Compared to that, what is one sexual identity crisis?

And so Dean makes up his mind. It is a huge step for him, one that he’d never foresee himself taking, but he takes it anyway. He straightens his shoulders and looks Castiel in the eye, because he’s done hiding and avoiding. “Okay, if this is a date, let’s do it properly.”

First, Cas smiles, relief flooding his features, but then he frowns in confusion and now that Dean’s done being in denial, he can freely think it’s cute. “Properly?”

Gathering up courage, Dean takes Cas by the hand, smiling when Cas’s grip tightens immediately, and leads them towards the main street. “Yeah, properly. A movie, a walk in the moonlight and all that. It’s gonna be great.”

And man, it is.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is still adjusting to being human and - more importantly - being Dean Winchester's boyfriend.

Tired but unable to sleep, Castiel lies in bed and stares at the bedroom ceiling of his tiny apartment. Cars are passing by on the street outside and as they go, their headlights dance across the white walls of the room.

Last night, Castiel wasn’t in this bed alone.

If he closes his eyes and turns his head into the pillow, he can still smell Dean’s scent on it, he can still imagine him lying there.

When they got here last night, they were both a little drunk – Castiel probably more so than Dean since he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of knowing when he’s had enough yet – and in a good, relaxed mood.

That changed immediately once Dean laid his eyes on the bed. Castiel could see the sharp intake of breath, the stiffening of his shoulders as Dean probably realized they’d either have to share the bed or one of them would have to sleep on the floor.

Castiel was just about to volunteer to take the floor when Dean shook himself and barked out a short, slightly nervous laugh. “Well, at least we won’t be cold. Hope you’re not a kicker.”

“A kicker?”

Dean shook his head tiredly at that. “Never mind. Look, man, I’m beat, how about we just turn in?”

And so they did, crammed in the bed that wasn’t exactly _that_ small for two people, but definitely too small if the two people didn’t want to be touching. And it was clear that despite Dean’s positive answer to Castiel asking him out, he was nowhere near being comfortable with touching Castiel in the way a man touches his lover.

Castiel was expecting that though, frankly, he was even a bit surprised that Dean had responded to the whole situation so well, so he didn’t feel offended or saddened by Dean’s shyness.

As he thinks about it now, he actually feels himself smile, finding it funny that _him,_ a fallen angel, someone who is very new to the human nature with its wants and needs, is more comfortable, more open to the idea of being in a physical relationship than Dean is.

Castiel knows why that is, he reads the newspaper and watches TV, he listens to people and observes them, notices how most of them act differently when a _homosexual_ is mentioned. He can understand why someone like Dean would feel threatened by that word or by what is apparently usually associated with it, no matter how incorrectly or distortedly.

What is important, however, is that Dean already made the first step, and it warms Castiel’s heart that he was the reason for it, that to Dean, he was worth it.

Still smiling, he shifts in the bed, lying on his side now, cheek pressed against the pillow. He’s in a positive frame of mind, he decides, and it would really be a good time now to fall asleep. He has to get up early tomorrow, his shift starts at 7 a.m. and if he doesn’t want to have to take the bus, it takes him thirty minutes to walk there.

But just like every night, sleep just doesn’t want to come.

With a sigh, Castiel sits up and turns the bedside lamp on, bending over the edge of the bed to grope for _The Game of Thrones_ book Dean gave him, a gift from Sam. So far, Castiel likes it, appreciating the parallels between the history of Westeros and the European countries, especially the portrayal of the medieval feudal structures. The plot is somewhat predictable for a reader familiar with human history, but in Castiel's opinion, unpredictability isn't what makes a good story. Some of his favorite books, the classical writings of the great, world-renowned authors, are quite simple and uncomplicated in terms of plots and storylines but they are masterpieces nevertheless.

Before he opens the book though, his eyes fall on the cellphone lying on the bedside table. He takes it and activates the screen, reads the time on the display. Idaho is one hour behind Kansas but there's no telling whether the Winchesters are in the bunker or working a case somewhere. And it's not really that late yet anyway, is it?

As if acting on their own, his fingers decide for him, moving over the keyboard and pressing the speed dial key.

Almost immediately, his call is picked up. “Cas? What’s up?”

Just hearing that voice makes Castiel smile. He leans back against the pillow comfortably. “I can’t sleep.”

“Try banging your head against the wall repeatedly,” Dean advises and when Castiel doesn’t answer, he quickly adds, “I was joking, don’t do that.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good. ‘Cause I didn’t want you to wake up the neighbors, that old cranky landlord of yours would have to throw you out then,” Dean retorts and sniggers. “Sorry, man, just kidding. Can’t help it.”

“Actually, I think you can,” Castiel whispers conspiratorially, “but you just don’t want to.”

“Yeah, got me. Sorry again. I’m a bad man.” Only Dean doesn’t sound repentant at all, quite the contrary, he sounds almost proud. Definitely pleased with himself.

Castiel truly enjoys playing this game with Dean. “Yes, you are, but luckily for you, despite all your flaws I still find your company amusing.”

“And I appreciate it,” Dean’s tone gets more serious. “Really. I do.”

For a while, neither of them says anything, but neither of them seems to mind.

“So, still can’t sleep, huh?” Dean says finally.

Castiel nods and then he remembers Dean can’t see him. “Yes. I find it difficult to relax.” The truth is he isn’t comfortable with the idea of not being conscious of his surroundings, of not being on his guard. Ever since he became human, the world around him became much more dangerous than it used to be, even before he learned Bartholomew’s angels were hunting him.

His apartment is both angel- and demon-proof – that’s why he decided to get one in the first place as soon as he had enough money – and rationally, he knows he’s safe here, but despite his best conscious efforts, on some deep, basic level he still feels threatened and doesn’t allow himself to let his guard down. When he finally does fall asleep, it’s from severe exhaustion. Which, as Dean has told him repeatedly, is not a good thing. As if Castiel didn't know that already.

“Cas? You there?”

“Yes.”

“You okay?”

“I am,” Castiel confirms quickly just to chase away the worry from Dean’s voice. He doesn’t like to be the one to cause Dean any distress. “I was just thinking. After I fell, when I lived among the homeless–“

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Dean interrupts him, clearly angry at himself, like he always is when something bad happens, no matter what or who is the true cause of the problem. “I should’ve found you earlier, should’ve brought you…” He trails off.

“To the bunker?” Castiel finishes the sentence for him. “You know Ezekiel would have only asked you to drive me away, just like he did when you actually found me.” It still hurts, but much less now that he knows the reason behind it. It’s easier to understand and cope with what happened when he knows Dean sent him away because of Sam’s safety, even if it’s a reminder that Dean will probably always put Sam in front of everything and everyone else. But that’s just how Dean is, it’s _who_ he is, to some extent, and Castiel has accepted it long ago.

After a long stretch of silence, Dean sighs heavily on the other end of the line. “I hate this, Cas. Hate this so fucking much.”

“But Ezekiel is right,” Castiel interposes and finds it vaguely amusing that he is advocating against his own interests. “My presence in the bunker _could_ prove to be too much of a risk for your brother. Until Ezekiel is strong enough to completely heal them both, they should both be kept out of danger.”

“Yeah, and what about you?” Dean asks bitingly, but once again, he aims all the negativity at himself.

“I’ll be fine.” The assurance is exaggerated, of course, and they both know it.

“You just keep your eyes open,” Dean reminds him, just like he does every day when they speak. He snorts. “Only not right now. Get some shut-eye.”

Grateful for the change of the topic, Castiel returns to what he was initially saying before Dean interrupted him. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. One of the homeless men recommended counting sheep as a method of bringing on sleep. But there were no sheep in the vicinity and even if there were some, I highly doubt their presence would have sleep-inducing effects.”

“Cas, you’re so adorable sometimes,” Dean chuckles before Castiel can hear him draw a calming breath. “Counting sheep means you imagine a long, endless line of sheep, or whatever – I used to count bullets as a kid – and then count them, one by one. It’s supposed to be boring, repetitive, rhythmic… which, in theory, should make you fall asleep.”

That makes more sense. “I see.”

“Not really sure it works though, so don’t get your hopes up,” Dean warns him. “Never worked on me much, maybe because I always got excited about the bullets.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to laugh now. “You’re very strange.”

“Come on, man! It’s bullets!” There’s excitement in Dean’s voice now as he starts speaking louder and faster. “There’s all kinds of them and in my head, I’d arrange them into lines in order of penetration power or kinetic energy or weight or caliber…” He lets out a dreamy sigh. “Good times.”

Castiel wants to comment on the strange nature of Dean’s definition of good times, but when he opens his mouth, a long yawn comes out instead.

“What was that?” Dean sounds curious and enthusiastic. “Was that a yawn?”

“Yes.” And there’s another yawn.

“Good, my psycho babbling makes you sleepy! So I’ll just keep on talking until you fall asleep, okay?”

“Dean, that’s not–“

“Shut up and listen,” Dean doesn’t even let Castiel finish. “So, as I was saying. Bullets. What’s really interesting is this debate in the world of arms manufacturers about the importance of stopping power versus penetration power. See, bullets with big stopping power, with a big punch, they are the big caliber, like those for my Colt.”

Forethoughtfully, Castiel puts the phone on speaker and places it on the pillow next to him. “Dean? You’ll hang up once I’m asleep?”

“Yeah, Cas.” The smile is clearly audible in Dean’s voice. “Sleep well. And stop interrupting. Where was I? Yeah, the big caliber bullets. When they hit their target, the body offers some pretty big resistance, it slows the bullet down. But the bullet also causes more damage. On the other hand, the bullets with big penetration power, the armor-piercing ones, they’ve got higher velocity and they easily shoot through the target, but they don’t cause as much immediate damage. Still, the general tendency’s been towards the armor-piercing ones lately, especially in the military, cause they have bigger firing range and also it turns out that as it pierces the whole body, making two holes, the target bleeds out faster so...”

It is without doubt the most bizarre bedtime story Castiel could imagine, but he doesn’t concentrate on the words, instead focusing on the calming sound of Dean’s voice, and soon that voice and the love and safety it stands for lulls Castiel into sleep.

*

Several days later, during Castiel’s lunch break at the convenience store, as he continues reading Mr. Martin’s series, he has to revise the theory about the most bizarre bedtime story. He thinks Arya Stark repeating the names of people she wants to see dead probably deserves the first place.

Dean actually laughs at that when Castiel calls him later that day and tells him. “So you’re saying I’m not the most fucked up person in the universe? God, I’ve been waiting to hear that all my life!”

“Dean, you are aware of the fact that Arya Stark is a fictional character, aren’t you?”

“Hey, stop spoiling my fun!”

***

There are times when Castiel actually feels like his fall was a good thing, a gift, a second chance, an opportunity for him to truly experience all the good things about humanity, to understand what it was that made Anna fall from Grace of her own will, what it was that made Dean insist that humanity is worth dying for.

The moments when Castiel thinks so are usually simple, common, probably not even worthy of a second thought to someone who’s been human all their life. But to Castiel, basking in the warm sunlight as he goes to work on a chilly morning, sharing a laugh with the guys in the store or muffling up in a soft blanket with a hot cup of tea and a good book are like a revelation, a treasure.

Unfortunately, this is not one of these moments.

Castiel scowls at the broken hot beverages vending machine and has to actually fight the urge to kick it. It used to be much easier to command his emotions as an angel – and despite all the times Dean claimed otherwise, angels _do_ have emotions – than as a human and sometimes it’s downright frustrating how difficult it is to get himself under control.

It isn’t so bad when the uncontrollable emotions are positive, like last weekend when Dean said yes to Castiel’s proposition of a date and Castiel was overwhelmed with joy, but when the emotion he feels is despair or sadness or anger, overwhelming quickly becomes crushing.

Castiel is brought out of his glum thoughts by the sound of a familiar horn honking outside. He starts and quickly looks at the large clock on the wall, letting out an annoyed whine when he sees he’s already late. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters at the vending machine, but it just stares at him mutely.

The entrance door of the Gas-N-Sip swings open and in the early evening light, Dean’s tall, broad-shouldered silhouette casts a large, long shadow on the floor. “Cas? You ready to go?”

Hanging his head in shame, Castiel sighs. “I… I’m afraid not.”

In an instant, Dean crosses the distance between them and lays his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, bends his head down and chases Castiel's eyes until Castiel looks at him. “Cas? What’s wrong?”

There is so much worry in that question, so much urgency in the tight grip of Dean’s fingers digging into Castiel’s shoulder that Castiel actually wishes he had a different answer, one that would be worthy of the magnitude of Dean’s concern. Even though in order to do that, the trouble would probably have to be on the apocalyptic scale. “The vending machine is broken,” he admits begrudgingly, feeling inappropriate. “I called the service center but they said they won't be able to come before Monday, and Nora asked me if I could try to fix it but I don’t even know where to start.”

The tense line of Dean’s shoulders relaxes slightly as if he’s relieved this is all that’s been bothering Castiel. “If we go now, you’re gonna keep thinking about the damn machine anyway, am I right?”

He wants to say no, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to lie. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Dean nods and turns his attention to the machine. “You have any idea what’s wrong with it?”

“I…” Again, Castiel feels out of place, inexperienced. “Nora said it must be something in the circuit. When you push a button, it doesn’t react at all and the display is dead.”

“Okay,” Dean says again, louder this time, more decisive. “You want me to take a look at it?”

Castiel knows Dean is a good mechanic, he believes he could probably do it, but he also doesn’t think it would be appropriate for them to spend their second date fixing a vending machine. “You don’t have to–“

He doesn’t get any further than that. “I know I don’t have to,” Dean shoots him a stern look. “But if I do, it’s gonna help you, right? Make you feel better?”

“Yes.”

That earns him a short yet sincere smile. “Just wait here, okay? I’ll get some stuff from my car.”

*

Fifteen minutes later, Castiel stares at the confusing innards of the machine. There are wires of different colors and tiny metal plates and all kinds of other parts that Castiel has no name for. It’s like the Tower of Babel, confusing and incomprehensible, a chaotic swarming of tiny components like the swarming of people who suddenly can’t understand each other at all. Castiel knows what electricity is, just like he knows all the other physical phenomena - he even remembers the universe as if was before God created some of them - but that knowledge is completely useless now.

“Ha!” Dean’s victorious shout almost makes Castiel jump. “Found you, you sneaky bastard!”

Castiel perks up. “Did you locate the source of the problem?”

Dean turns to look at him, a big grin on his face. He looks like he’s actually enjoying this. “Yeah. The fuse was blown, so I checked the wires, found a short circuit in the…” He stops talking, probably in reaction to the blank look that must be on Castiel’s face. “The bottom line is I’ll be able to fix it.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, speaking to the back of Dean’s head again as Dean turns back to work on the machine.

“Don’t thank me yet,” comes the slightly muffled reply from the belly of the mechanical beast.

No more words from Dean follow and although Castiel can think of many things to talk about, he stays silent because he understands that Dean needs to concentrate.

The bright side of this situation is that Cas is given the opportunity to observe Dean undisturbed.

Dean Winchester is a beautiful man. Castiel has always known that. But there were times when he made no difference between the beauty of a man, a woman, a tall tree or a flower in bloom, because all of God’s creation was beautiful to him. Uriel and some other angels used to mock Castiel for his fondness for the humankind and the Earth as a whole because he didn’t – couldn’t – share their superciliousness. Perhaps he’s always been different.

He’s not sure when exactly did things change, when did Dean’s appearance start to gain special meaning to him, but he is certain it happened quite long ago. He began to see Dean in a different light, and soon the urge to look was accompanied by the urge to touch, to taste, to feel. To _have_.

He’d never expect to actually get a chance to do just that, but now that he’s been given it, he intends to make use of it fully. He’ll have to be patient though, because despite his best efforts not to spook Dean, the man still acts skittish when Castiel tries to initiate any kind of physical contact beyond the occasional brush of their shoulders, squeeze of hands or a quick hug.

“Cas, I feel like you’re staring a hole into the back of my head,” Dean grumbles, but Castiel can tell from his tone that he’s not really angry; once again, he’s just joking.

“Sorry,” he says anyway.

Dean sends him a half-grin over one shoulder before he gets back to working on the machine. “Hey, would you hand me the multimeter again?”

Castiel quickly spots the tool on the floor – it looks a bit like Dean's EMF meter – and hands it over. Their fingers brush as the multimeter is passed, Dean’s hand staying joined with Castiel’s longer than necessary.

“Thanks,” Dean finally pulls away and does something with the multimeter, obviously satisfied at whatever it is supposed to do because he nods and hums approvingly. “Yeah, it should work now. Let’s try.”

Curious and tense, Castiel watches as Dean turns the vending machine on. The digital display lights up and the machine starts humming.

“You did it!” The excitement with which Castiel shouts it surprises both him and Dean.

“What’d you expect, Cas? I know my way around stuff like this, you know.” Dean pretends offence, but only manages to keep the appearance up for several moments before the fake hurt expression melts into a big smile. “Now how about we celebrate with tasting the coffee?”

“Here?”

“Well, yeah,” Dean agrees as he starts picking up his tools and storing them away into the tool kit he brought from the Impala’s trunk. “I wanna taste the fruit of my labor.”

This isn’t what Castiel had in mind when he agreed to let Dean take a look at the machine. He planned to reward him with a visit to the bar Dean seemed to enjoy so much last weekend to express his gratitude. “Don’t you want to go get a beer instead?”

Dean shuts the tool kit and stands up, straightens out his back with several loud pops. “Nah, I’m good here.” He meets Castiel’s eyes then, and that one look says enough that the “with you” can remain unspoken.

*

And that’s how they end up sitting on the floor of the Gas-N-Sip, leaning against a wall, drinking first hot coffee and later beer, and eating delivery pizza.

“This isn’t how I pictured our second date would go,” Castiel observes as he chews on his last slice.

Dean, who’s so close to Castiel that they’re touching from shoulders to stretched out legs, turns his head to grin at him. “But it’s not really that bad, is it?”

There’s no need to think before answering. “Not at all.”

Their faces are very close, so close that Castiel could count the freckles and crinkles on Dean’s skin. If he leaned in just a little bit… “Dean?”

“What?” Dean’s breath gusts over Castiel’s face, warm and faintly smelling of beer and pizza.

“Can I kiss you?”

For a split second, Dean’s expression goes blank, which, as Castiel’s noticed, is something he does when he feels threatened, but then life slowly creeps back into his features and his stiff body relaxes gradually.

Castiel doesn’t dare to move or speak, afraid of doing or saying something wrong. He shouldn’t have asked this of Dean, it’s too soon, Dean isn’t ready yet. He should’ve been more pati–

“Yeah, you can kiss me,” Dean whispers, the words barely audible but Castiel knows they were real because he can feel Dean’s breath and because Dean’s face is moving closer until Castiel has to close his eyes and in that moment, he feels soft, full lips pressing against his own.

The kiss is chaste, just lips, no tongue, and when Castiel reaches out with one hand and places his palm on Dean’s chest, he can feel his heart beating wildly under his touch. He hums softly and wraps his arm around Dean’s neck, not too tight or oppressive, but there anyway.

They stay like that for a long time, and when the kiss ends, Dean doesn’t pull away, just rests his forehead against Castiel’s and stays there, his long eyelashes tickling Castiel’s skin. His breathing is still ragged and Castiel can still feel Dean’s quickened pulse.

“Cas…” The word is spoken shakily. “Cas, this is…” As Dean speaks, his lips move against Castiel’s again and whatever he wanted to say is drowned in another kiss, a kiss that turns out to be very different from the last one when Dean’s fingers clutch at the front of Castiel’s shirt and his lips part to make way for tongue. Castiel reacts, immediately opening his mouth and inviting Dean inside.

The kiss quickly gains on intensity as they hungrily devour each other’s moans and their hands claw at heated, trembling flesh hidden under too many layers of clothing.

Careful not to break the kiss, Castiel shifts and moves until he ends up straddling Dean’s lap, but as soon as he grinds down against Dean’s erection, Dean makes a distressed sound and starts pushing him away. Cas understands the message and makes to leave, but before he can actually get away, Dean’s hands on his hips stop him.

“Sorry, it was just…” Dean’s pupils are blown wide as he stares at Castiel. “Don’t go.”

Not quite convinced, Castiel narrows his eyes and studies the man before him cautiously. “Are you sure?”

Dean huffs out an agitated breath. “Yes, dammit, I’m sure.” He tugs at Castiel impatiently, trying to make him move closer again. “C’mere.”

So Castiel goes, follows Dean’s hands that are drawing him back down, but when Dean tries to kiss him again, he turns away because there’s something he should say and if he feels Dean’s lips on his again, he might just let it go. “Dean, I think we should move this elsewhere.”

For a moment, Dean stares at him as if Castiel spoke a different language, uncomprehending. Then his eyebrows lift and his mouth makes an O as he takes the hint. “Cas, you’re a genius. Okay, let’s go to your place.”

Although this was his own idea, Castiel is hesitant to get up, to break the connection between him and Dean. But they really can’t stay here like this so he makes himself move.

*

The Impala’s engine rumbles dissatisfiedly as they wait for the light to go green.

“I’m not a homophobe,” Dean says suddenly, breaking the silence that settled in after they got in the car.

“I know.” And Castiel does know; he was sitting next to Dean in that bar waiting for the Cupid, he saw Dean’s reaction to the barman falling in love with his _male_ regular customer. Yes, there was surprise, because this was definitely not the most probable, most expectable outcome of the situation, but there was no disapproval or disgust.

Dean doesn’t have any problems with men who like other men. He just seems to have a slight problem with being one of them.

Castiel throws a furtive glance at Dean, trying to assess his mood. Dean is staring fixedly at the stoplights, his face unreadable, which is a clue in itself. He’s already closing off again, building those walls around him back up and Castiel is almost sure that by the time they reach his apartment, Dean will be back to his old no touching, no chick flick moments self.

He’s proven wrong though when Dean reaches out to take Castiel’s hand and places it on his thigh. “Gotta get used to being touched by a guy.” The light finally turns green and Dean pulls out, muscles in his thigh shifting under Castiel’s hand as he steps on the gas.

“We can wait,” Castiel says as they near his apartment. “I don’t want to pressure you.”

Dean throws an offended look in his direction. “I’m not some virginal blushing bride, Cas!”

Actually, Dean _is_ blushing slightly, but Castiel wisely decides not to remark on it. “I know, Dean. But I also know you are struggling with accepting your bisexuality–“

“God, Cas!” Dean almost jumps out of his skin. “Don’t say it like that!” He blows out a huff of breath, then sighs as he skillfully parks the Impala between two other cars and turns the engine off. “Come on, Casanova. Let’s do this.”

They walk the two flights of narrow, badly lit stairs that lead to Castiel’s apartment and when Castiel  pulls out his keys and starts to unlock the door, he notices that Dean is standing much closer to him than would be appropriate, so close that Castiel can feel his warm breath prickling at his ear. He shivers involuntarily, making Dean chuckle softly, which in return sends another shiver down Castiel’s spine.

“Hurry up, open it already,” Dean says impatiently.

“I’m trying, but you’re distracting me,” Castiel shoots back and then lets out a relieved breath when the lock finally stops obstructing him and the door opens.

They slip inside and Castiel turns the light on while Dean closes the door and locks it from the inside, then finishes the salt line along it. A quick glance around the room to check that none of the protection sigils have been tampered with and they both nod in satisfaction.

“Okay, good,” Dean rubs his hands as if trying to warm them up although Castiel knows he can’t possibly be cold. It must be the nerves again. Dean overcomes the uneasiness though and offers Castiel a brave smile. “Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?”

The kiss starts out slow and a little timid, but it doesn’t take long until they both grow bolder and more heated, sucking and biting at every patch of skin available. The biting is mostly on Castiel’s part and he discovers that he loves to hear the sounds Dean makes in reaction, low and surprised, choked off as if he’s trying to fight the effect Castiel’s lips and teeth have on him but failing miserably.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean groans out plaintively when Castiel nibbles on a soft spot on his throat, “where’d you learn this?”

“I have imagination, you know,” Castiel replies, mouth moving against Dean’s skin while he starts tugging at the sleeves of Dean’s jacket. Dean actually helps him with taking it off and once the jacket hits the floor, Dean’s hands are on Castiel’s shirt, trying to undo the buttons clumsily.

“Stupid clothes,” Dean grumbles when his progress with Castiel’s shirt isn’t as fast as he probably hoped it would be. “Want them gone.”

After some more fussing and cursing and a lot of kissing, their clothes are finally removed and they stand naked.  Castiel doesn’t miss Dean’s sharp intake of breath when he sees Castiel’s erection, but instead of looking away or even stepping back and calling it all off, Dean takes a step forward and touches Castiel right _there,_ just a shy, feather-light brush of fingertips that nevertheless makes Castiel shudder and moan loudly.

When he returns the favor and wraps his fingers around Dean, a full-body shiver runs through the man and he can hear Dean’s breath hitch and stutter. Castiel gives the erection a firm tug and Dean practically bucks into him, knees buckling.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah,” Dean stutters again and allows Castiel to push him towards the bed and onto it, settling on his back and pulling Castiel on top of him. “It’s just…” His eyes fall shut and he makes another of those low moans when Castiel resumes touching him. “It’s been a long time since anybody’s done that for me and…” He leaves the sentence unfinished and lifts up a bit so he can kiss Castiel, tongue slipping into Castiel’s mouth eagerly, hands travelling down Castiel’s sides and ending up on his waist, digging into his skin desperately as if he’s holding onto him and Castiel is the only thing keeping him from slipping away. “Not gonna… last long.”

And sure enough, it doesn’t take long before Dean’s grip on Castiel’s skin becomes almost painful and he cries out, the sound only partly muffled by Castiel’s mouth, and then Castiel can feel warm, sticky come coating his fingers where they’re wrapped around Dean’s twitching erection.

Sounding breathless and looking boneless, Dean sinks back onto the bed, chest heaving, kiss-swollen mouth open and panting as he stares up at Castiel with that wide-eyed look.

Castiel bends down to kiss him and as he does, his hardness bumps against Dean’s flat stomach, sliding easily through the fine sheen of sweat that coves Dean’s pale skin. It feels good and so when Dean doesn’t protest, he does it again.

“Let me take care of that,” Dean’s strangely hoarse voice cuts through the haze of pleasure that’s been floating around Castiel ever since this started. Then there’s a hand that isn’t Castiel’s on his cock, warm and large and calloused but somehow still gentle, almost unsure at first but quickly getting bolder, the grip tighter.

Starting to feel overwhelmed, Castiel lets his head fall, forehead resting against Dean’s shoulder where he can smell the strong, sharp scent of Dean’s sweat and feel the muscles and tendons working as Dean continues stroking him, hard and fast now, and as if that wasn’t enough already, a second hand appears, rolling and massaging Castiel’s balls and just like that, it’s suddenly all too much for Castiel to handle. He tries to hold it back, tries to squirm away from Dean’s touch and get himself back under control, but it’s no use and he comes with a pitiful whimper. He didn’t want it to be over yet.

“Doesn’t have to be over,” Dean rumbles, making Castiel realize he must’ve said his last thought out loud. He extricates his hands from between their bodies and wraps them around Castiel, rubbing slow, lazy circles into his back. “The night’s still young and there’s no rush.”

*

Sadly, they _are_ in a rush when morning comes and they oversleep. They both take a quick shower – not at the same time because that wouldn’t be helpful at all – and pick up the clothes that are haphazardly scattered all across the bedroom, putting them on as fast as they can.

Castiel pulls on his jeans and lets his fingers button them up automatically, using the chance to look at Dean. In the bright morning light, he notices a dark, ugly-looking bruise on Dean’ left shoulder. “What is that?” He approaches Dean to examine the bruise more thoroughly and frowns. He doesn’t remember seeing it last night.

Cocking one eyebrow at Castiel, Dean gives him a clearly amused look. “You don’t remember?”

Confused, Castiel shakes his head. “Remember what?”

Dean’s grin grows wider, mischievous. “Wow, you must’ve been pretty out of it. You bit me, Cas.”

“I didn’t!” He couldn’t have, or could he? “I don’t…”

Before he can come up with something cleverer to say, maybe apologize, he’s distracted by the way Dean’s body starts shaking and he realizes Dean is laughing that silent, wheezing laughter that Castiel has only discovered on Dean recently but already come to love.

“It’s not funny,” he mutters sulkily, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips insistently and he can’t seem to be able to hold it back if his life depended on it. “You shouldn’t be laughing.”

Instead of replying, Dean gives him a quick kiss that tastes of laughter and sunshine and then goes back to getting dressed so the bruise soon disappears under a black t-shirt. “I love it when you get all respectable and appropriate.” He dusts his green jacket down cursorily and puts it on, immediately looking different than just moments before – larger, tougher, more distant as he raises the collar of the jacket like armor. But when his eyes meet Castiel’s, they’re still the same, warm and open and fond, as is his smile. “Gonna take a few days for that bruise to fade, y’know. Any time I look at it or touch it, it’s gonna make me think of you.”

“I like that,” Castiel admits and, because he’s being a responsible, exemplary employee and he doesn't want to be late for work, puts on his shirt. He feels Dean’s eyes on him the whole time he’s doing up his buttons.

*

Dean drives him to the Gas-N-Sip and hangs around for a while, watching as Castiel prepares the store for opening, back leaning against a wall casually, sipping on a cup of coffee from the machine he fixed last night. “I hope you’re going to get a bonus from Nora for fixing the damn thing.”

Looking up from the cash register, Castiel frowns. “But I didn’t fix it, you did.”

“And who’s gonna know?” Dean pushes himself off the wall and crosses the room until he’s standing in front of Castiel, the shop counter separating them. “The shop open now?”

“Yes, it’s 07:03,” Castiel nods after consulting the digital clock. “The rest of the staff will be here shortly.”

“Guess I should be on my way then,” Dean says but doesn’t make to leave. He just stands there and watches Castiel with a small, dreamy smile. He only snaps out of it when Castiel clears his throat, jerking slightly at the sound. He nods as if to spur himself into action. “Okay, see you soon?”

“Soon,” Castiel agrees. “Say hello to Sam and Kevin for me.”

“Will do.” Dean leans across the counter and plants a soft, wet kiss on Castiel’s lips. “Stay safe.”

“You too.”

Castiel watches him go through the door and walk to the Impala. Dean only looks back at him once he’s inside, engine running. He gives Castiel a quick handwave and then the car pulls away. Soon Castiel is alone with the cash register, shelves stacked with packets of various kinds of food and bottles of various beverages, an upbeat song playing on the radio and the vending machine humming along.

“Hey, Steve! Good morning!” Nora greets him cheerily as she walks in, high heels clacking on the tiled floor. She heads towards the ladies' room to check on her appearance like she does every morning but before she gets there, she stops and stares at the vending machine. “Steve? Did you fix this?”

Remembering Dean’s words, Castiel still doesn’t want to lie. “It wasn’t me. My friend… he did it.”

“Oh.” Nora gets a curious expression on her face. “Was it the same friend who helped you bring down Tonya’s temperature and look after her while I was on that date?”

“Yes, it was him.”

“Sounds like a good friend,” Nora gives him an honest, generous smile. “Thanks, Steve. I really appreciate how you take care of the store. I’ll make sure the management hears about it.”

“Thank you,” Castiel isn’t sure what to do with the praise.

“Sure.” Leaning her head to one side, Nora narrows her eyes and observes him curiously. “I don't wanna be nosy, but... Did something happen, Steve? There’s something… you’re different. You look happier than I’ve ever seen you.”

“I am,” Castiel nods and when she smiles at him before disappearing in the ladies' room, he believes she truly wishes him well.

His eyes are drawn to the vending machine again and the memory of last night with Dean warms him up inside like no cup of coffee or tea ever could. “I am,” he repeats.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's this issue that Dean has to talk through with Cas.

Singing enthusiastically along to Bruce Springsteen’s _Born to Run_ , Dean flips the pancake on the pan and listens to it sizzle for a few moments before sliding it on top of the heap of pancakes that are already waiting on the large plate by the stove.

There’s only enough batter in the bowl left for one last pancake and just as he pours it into the pan, he hears the kitchen door open and somebody walks in. He’d recognize the sound of those footsteps anywhere so he doesn’t have to turn around to look. “Good morning, Sammy.”

Sam’s first response is a long yawn, followed by a “Morning, Dean” and then rounded off with a surprised “Huh.”

“What’s up?” Dean slides the last pancake off the pan and turns off the stove, places the plate with pancakes on the table and rummages through the cupboards, looking for syrup. Where the hell did he put it?

“What’s up with you?” Sam shoots back and reaches into the top shelf, waving the bottle of syrup at Dean. “You’re awfully happy.”

“So?” Dean starts setting the table for three, the skin on the back of his neck prickling as he’s aware of Sam watching him with suspicion. “Can’t I be happy?”

“You’re happy and you’re up early and you’re making breakfast,” Sam rises three fingers as if he was listing evidence against Dean. “So where is she?”

Dean does a double take. “She who?”

“The girl, Dean,” Sam says patiently. “You hooked up with some girl last night and now you’re making the ‘thanks for the great sex’ pancakes.”

“No I didn’t, and I'm not!” Dean defends himself with indignation because a) there is no girl and b) even if there was, he’d never let her even near the bunker. “I’m just... in a good mood, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam’s still looking a little doubtful but he doesn’t come up with any more false accusations. He sits down at the table and grabs a pancake instead, pours a healthy dose of syrup over it and gobbles it down in a matter of mere seconds.

“Eating fast’s not healthy,” Dean smacks him across the head and pulls the plate with the pancakes out of Sam’s reach before the Sasquatch can snatch another one. He ignores Sam’s protesting look and yells at the top of his lungs, “Kevin! Get your ass down here before Sam eats all the good stuff!”

“I wasn’t gonna eat them _all_ ,” Sam mutters when Dean pushes the plate back towards him, but he grabs two pancakes at once as if afraid there might not be enough for him left.

“Sure, whatever you say,” Dean taunts and takes a first bite himself, humming happily as he chews. He makes good pancakes. He should make some for Cas this Saturday, he thinks and makes a mental note to buy the ingredients on his way to Rexford.

Something’s poking his arm. It’s Sam and he’s watching Dean with a curious, inquisitive look to his eyes, the one he has when he’s following a lead. “And there’s that smile again.”

“What smile?”

“The _there’s a girl I really really like and I think she likes me back_ smile,” Kevin says by way of greeting as he shuffles into the kitchen, flops down onto a chair and digs in. “I’ve seen that smile on your face a lot lately.” He speaks with his mouth full, syrup dripping down his chin. He's gone a bit wild since he started living in the bunker and Dean realizes he should probably try to fix that.

“Yeah, so who is she?” Sam inquires.

Dean wants to tell them, he really does. But if he admitted the _she_ is actually a _he_ (and okay, he is a little bit nervous about that) and the _he_ is Cas, he’s pretty sure Sam would straight out ask him why Cas doesn’t move into the bunker with them. And Dean’s not sure he’d be able to answer that question satisfactorily without making Sam even more suspicious about the whole _there’s something wrong with m_ e thing. Until Ezekiel is done healing him, Sam has to stay as unsuspecting as possible, even if it means keeping Cas away and keeping him a secret.

“Dean? Who is she?” Kevin repeats Sam’s question.

“There’s no girl, okay?” Dean replies, fighting frustration now. “No girl at all, so you can quit asking or I quit making you breakfast.”

That shuts them up, thank God.

***

When Dean pulls up at the Gas-N-Sip and checks the time on his watch, he's not really surprised to see he’s arrived ahead of schedule. Again. He’s not doing it on purpose, but the trip _to_ Cas always takes him less time than the trip _from_ him.

He’s got twenty more minutes before Cas’s shift ends and he could just wait in the car like he did the last couple of times, but he doesn’t want to do that anymore. What’s the point of arriving early when you don’t actually make use of the extra time, right?

So Dean walks through the door and the moment he spots Cas by the cash register, his heart does that fluttering thing that you hear about in romantic movies. Not that Dean has seen any romantic movies. Because he’s seen none. At all.

Castiel is busy doing something with the register and so Dean uses the opportunity to sneak up to him unnoticed. He’s practically looming over Cas before the man finally becomes aware of his presence and looks up, startled at first but relaxing immediately once he sees who his visitor is.

“Hello, Dean,” he says with a mischievous smile that tells Dean that Cas is sticking to that old greeting on purpose. He looks Dean up and down – well, as down as the counter between them allows – and his smile widens. “I remember you explaining to me countless times that it is not appropriate to invade another man’s personal space like this.”

“Like what?” Dean asks, then realizes that he’s actually leaning his hands on the counter and his face is very, very close to Castiel’s, the distance definitely kiss-friendly. “Oh, sorry.” He draws back and clears his throat, stuffs his hands into his pockets and shifts his weight a bit nervously. Castiel goes back to doing whatever it is he’s doing with the cash register with a small frown, suddenly looking almost dissatisfied.

Before Dean can ask what’s wrong so all of a sudden, he hears the clacking of high heels and looks towards the source of the sound. It’s Cas’s manager, Nora, if he remembers correctly. “Uh… hi,” he tries with a tentative smile.

Nora shifts her gaze between Dean and Cas several times before finally settling her eyes on Cas questioningly. “Steve?”

Cas catches up quickly and does a perfect Mr. Etiquette. “Nora, I believe you remember Dean. Dean, this is Nora, my manager.”

Dean puts on his polite face and shakes Nora’s hand. “Nice to meet you officially.” The truth is, he’s still kind of pissed at her for leading Cas to believe they were going on a date, although he’s pretty sure she didn’t do it on purpose and it also made this thing between him and Cas easier, so he’s willing to forgive her.

Nora gives him a cursory once-over and a smile that doesn’t seem fake. “Are you the hero who fixed the vending machine?”

Suppressing the urge to give Cas an angry glare – he was supposed to take the credit for fixing the thing himself, dammit! – Dean nods instead. “Uh, yeah, that was me. Always happy to give Steve a hand.” It feels weird, using Castiel’s fake name.

Nora doesn’t seem to notice Dean’s discomfort and just keeps smiling and watching them both with what appears to be genuine interest. “So, I take it you two are good friends?”

Cas blanches noticeably and shoots an uncertain look in Dean’s direction. “Yes, Dean is… he’s my…” He pauses and frowns slightly, clearly not sure how to continue that sentence. Dean realizes Castiel probably thinks that Dean doesn’t want anyone to know about them being a couple, that he feels ashamed of it, of _them_. And the stupid son of a bitch is just gonna go with it.

Well, fuck that. Dean’s never done things half-heartedly and he’s sure as Hell not going to start now. “I’m his boyfriend,” he says, trying to make it sound as casual as possible. He thinks he pulled it off pretty good, and the way Cas’s face lights up tells him he made the right decision.

Nora just stares at him speechlessly, then stares at Cas, her mouth slightly open. And then she just shrugs. “Oh. Didn’t see that coming.” She slings her purse over her shoulder and heads towards the door. “Alright, guys, have fun tonight.”

They both gape after her retreating form dumbly until she gets into her car and drives away.

“Huh,” says Dean. That went better than he expected.

“You said I am your boyfriend,” Castiel observes belatedly, sounding slightly incredulous.

“I did,” Dean agrees, now also feeling incredulous at his own audacity. “You have any objections?”

Instead of answering, Cas leans over the counter and grabs Dean by the front of his jacket to pull him into a long, thorough kiss.

*

As they approach Castiel’s place, Dean’s getting more and more nervous.

He has this… problem that he wants to bring up with Cas, but although he’s been thinking about it for days now, he’s not really sure how to do it.

Cas, of course, notices, because he’s getting pretty good at reading people even without his old  _I can see into your soul_ shtick. “You seem troubled,” he observes and gets out of the car, holding the bag of takeaway Chinese they bought on the way.

Dean slams the Impala’s door shut and pats her roof goodnight before following Cas into the apartment building and up the stairs. “I wanted to discuss something with you.”

They enter the apartment and Cas places the Chinese on the small table before shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on the peg on the door. He looks at Dean, a question in his eyes. “We can talk now.”

“Okay,” Dean pulls up a chair but at the last moment decides not to sit down, instead walking up to Cas and placing his hands on his shoulders. “Don’t kick me outta here right away, please. Just listen to what I have to say first.”

Castiel gives a nod.

Dean takes a deep breath and spits it out. “I think there’s a case for us here in Idaho, a couple hours from Rexford. And I want you to come solve it with me.”

Castiel’s face, patient and attentive so far, turns into a hard, unreadable mask. “I told you I was done with that. I’m a sales–“

“A sales associate, I know,” Dean raises one finger and presses it to Castiel’s lips to silence him. “And man, I get it, I really do. It’s safe and there’s no big responsibility, it’s easy and uncomplicated and all that crap. Right?”

“I don’t want to get involved in anything bigger than ordering goods ever again,” Cas mutters, and as he speaks, it’s like he’s shrinking before Dean’s eyes, drawing in on himself, wilting. “Everything I touch, every time I try to help, I only make things worse. Every decision I have made has eventually lead to something tragic and terrible.”

“Alright, just hold on!” Dean fights the impulse to shake Cas and forces himself to remain calm. “You saved me from Hell, remember? So now you think that was a bad thing, too?”

“No, of course not,” the reply is immediate and unhesitant, but Castiel’s expression doesn’t change. “But I was acting on Heaven’s orders then. Once I disobeyed, once I started making my own choices… it all went downhill from there.”

Dean’s spent a lot of time thinking about this conversation so he’s not entirely lost. “You didn’t forget you’re talking to the guy who jumpstarted the Apocalypse, right?”

“That wasn't your fault. After thirty years on the rack, anyone would’ve given in,” Cas also has a reply ready.

This still hurts a lot, the sting of disappointment, of not being good enough, strong enough, but Dean doesn’t shy away from it like he wants to. “Not anyone,” he gives a tight smile, Alastair’s words about his father echoing in his mind.

Cas tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowed and searching. “What do you mean?”

Dean doesn’t want to have this conversation, but he answers anyway. “My dad, Cas. A hundred years and he never broke. And then I came and their Apocalypse problem was solved in thirty years.”

“Did Alastair tell you that?” At Dean’s slight nod, Castiel brings up his hands to cup Dean’s face and forces him to meet his eyes. “I want you to listen to me very carefully now, Dean. Whatever Alastair told you about your father… it’s not true.”

“What?”

“Alastair probably never even met your father because John Winchester was never intended to be the one to break the first seal,” Cas has Dean’s head in a firm, comforting grip of strong, warm hands as he speaks. “How could John be the Righteous Man with all the anger, all the vengefulness that he harbored inside him? His soul was tainted, corrupted.”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Dean growls, low and dangerous. “My dad was a–“

“A good man at heart, yes,” Castiel cuts in on Dean, voice placatory, conciliatory, but still firm. “But he wasn’t you. Why do you think Heaven only sent us to save you and not your father? It was always meant to be you, Dean.“

It sounds kinda nice, too nice to be true and so Dean chooses not to believe it, at least for now. He generally tries not to think of what happened down in the Pit, usually keeps it buried in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, and he doesn’t intend for that to change. Even if Cas spoke the truth, even if Dean wasn’t just plan B that was put into operation because plan A – Dad – didn’t work, breaking under Alastair’s pressure was Dean’s failure anyway. And that’s the one thing about Hell that he purposefully chose to remember, just so he’d make sure nothing like that happened to him again.

“It doesn’t really matter, Cas,” he says finally, following that train of thought out loud. “My point is we’ve all messed up, so many times. Me, my dad, Sam, and yeah, you too. But making mistakes is part of what makes us human, you know. Together with fixing them, learning from them, trying to make up for what you did by doing better next time.”

“That sounds nice in theory,” Cas gives a small, wistful smile, blue eyes sorrowful and ancient, heavy with the weight of his past actions, which is something Dean can easily relate to. “But I don’t think it applies to me.”

“That's complete bullshit!” So yeah, Dean isn’t really good at being patient. No surprise there. “The amount of knowledge you have, your experience, all that… you want to let it all go to waste?”

“I believe it would be for the best, yes,” Castiel answers morosely.

“Well then you’re wrong! You can’t just keep your head buried in the sand forever, Cas!” Dean is practically shouting now. “If nothing else, you owe it to the world, okay? You made a mess? You clean it up!”

“Then why did you tell me not to look into Metatron’s spell and helping my fallen brothers and sisters?”

“Because that’s…” Dean sighs and releases his grip on Cas’s shoulders, only now becoming aware of how hard he’s been digging his fingers into the flesh there. He hopes there won’t be any bruises, but he’s pretty sure there will. “Because sniffing around the angel business might get those winged dicks back on your trail and I don’t want you to be in that much danger.”

“Your logic is flawed,” Castiel says with a strict face. “You say you want me to clean up my mess, but you won’t actually let me do it. There is an enormous pile of dirt at my doorstep but you want me to just step over it and ignore it, you only let me sweep up the little piles of dirt elsewhere. Instead of giving me the broomstick, you only let me use the hand brush.”

“Alright, that’s enough of the cleaning analogies, _Steve_ ,” Dean decides that it’s time to conclude the debate before it derails completely. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re wasting your potential here, Cas. Even if you ignore the whole angel business, you could still help a lot of people. It might even make you feel better. And knowing you have my back would sure make _me_ feel better.”

“Why don’t you solve the case with Sam instead?” The question is a little obstinate still, but Dean thinks he can see Cas’s resistance weakening.

“Because I want to go with you, you stupid angel,” Dean rolls his eyes and feels relieved when he sees Cas relaxing further. “I told Sam I’d take care of it alone, but it’d be really cool if you went with me.” When Cas doesn’t start protesting immediately, Dean presses on. “I know you have this weekend off so you don’t have to worry about missing work. So what d’you think?”

“How long have you been planning this?” Castiel’s inquisitive look makes Dean want to squirm but he manages to resist.

“A couple of weeks,” Dean admits begrudgingly. “I miss you, man. I miss working with you and I _know_ you miss it too.” Okay, so he doesn’t exactly know that, but here’s hoping he is right anyway.

His hope/suspicion is confirmed when Cas’s shoulders sag and his whole posture relaxes in resignation. “Alright,” Cas says heavily, as if he’s making a concession here, “tell me more about the case.”

*

They go to sleep early because Dean is tired from the long drive all the way from Kansas and he wants them to hit the road early in the morning. They need to be in Post Falls soon.

Neither of them can fall asleep easily though, still thinking about the heavy conversation they had before. They both have too many skeletons in their closets, too many shadows hanging over their heads and even with the comfort each other’s proximity, it’s hard to keep their inner demons at bay.

*

Luckily, things seem much better in the morning.

Dean wakes up curled around Cas, his half-hard cock nestled against Castiel’s ass, two pairs of boxers the only thing between them. He tries to shift a little – closer or away, he’s not sure – and Cas stirs, slowly waking up and presses back against Dean in encouragement. At the first moment Dean just goes with it because it feels really good – his quickly hardening cock stands as proof – and also pretty familiar, it’s just like waking up in a bed behind some chick. Although Cas’s butt doesn’t feel exactly the same as a girl’s butt; it’s a bit smaller and definitely firmer, the shape slightly different… but good.

“This is nice,” Cas says, voice gruff and still thick with sleep, and he turns his head around to grin at Dean. He continues moving against Dean, eyes falling half-closed and mouth opening on a groan when Dean sneaks one hand around to Cas’s front and under the waistband of his boxers. “I have condoms and lubricant if you want.”

That works better than a cold shower. Dean jerks his hand away and just barely manages not to just jump out of bed and run hide. Because exchanging a couple of handjobs with a guy is something completely different than fucking a guy. Or getting fucked by the guy. Maybe both? Dean hasn’t really figured that part out yet.

Cas rolls over so he can looks at Dean without having to twist his neck. “Dean? Are you alright?”

Dean knows he should come clean about this, but he chickens out instead. “No, I just don’t think we have time for this now. Come on, we gotta go.”

He has a feeling that Cas can see right through that excuse, but in his defense, it’s not really an excuse, they really should get going. People’s lives might depend on it.

He’s still glad that Cas doesn’t call his bullshit through.

*

“I don’t like it here,” Cas says in a small voice, standing in the doorway. He’s so close to Dean that Dean can feel him shaking slightly.

“It’s a necessary evil,” he replies, trying to sound confident and tough, but actually he’s not faring much better than Cas, he's only better at hiding it. “I’m sorry I have to put you through this.”

“Why do federal agents wear suits anyway?” Cas wonders about half an hour later as he walks out of the fitting room, looking at Dean with a mix of hope and fatigue. Dean can relate, he doesn’t know many things that are more tiring than having to pick new clothes. Well, maybe going shopping with a girl and waiting for _her_ to pick her clothes. He was forced to do that once with Lisa and then he made her swear that she’d never make him go through it again.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a government thing,” he says and looks Cas over with a critical eye, which isn’t as easy as it sounds since to him, Cas looks amazing pretty much all the time. Finally he gives Cas a tight, apologetic smile. “Sorry, man. Not this one either, it’s too classy.”

Cas looks ready to start throttling Dean by the time they finally find a suit that is right – not too cheap but not too expensive, fitting and comfortable and with enough space to conceal a gun.

Then they have to find the right shoes and shirts and matching ties, then wait in line to the cash register where Dean insists on paying for it all. It’s absolute Hell, but at least Cas will feel obliged to go on more hunts with Dean so the sacrifice wasn’t made in vain.

Because Dean absolutely isn’t above using anything that will allow him to spend more time with Cas.

*

They’re on the road for about ten minutes before Cas speaks. “Dean, about this morning…”

Yeah, Dean knew the other shoe would drop eventually. “So is this gonna be a thing now? Talking about sex in my car while I’m driving?”

“We do need to talk about it and now we also have the time,” Cas explains peacefully. “So, Dean. Have you ever been on either end of anal sex before?”

“What? No! No.” The Impala almost swerves off the road. “Cas, what’s wrong with you? You don’t just ask a guy questions like that!”

“As you said yourself yesterday, you are my boyfriend,” Castiel interposes. “I believe discussing sex with you is quite appropriate.” Dean can’t really argue with that, so he shuts up. “I have noticed your discomfort increases every time the chance for penetrative sex with me occurs.”

Dean sighs and keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead of him. “Please don’t talk like a doctor.”

“I will try. Now tell me, Dean, do I disgust you?”

“You? No!” Dean gives Cas a long, unguarded look, willing him to see that he’s not lying. “God no, not at all. You’re… you’re pretty hot.” And beautiful, but he’s not sure you’re supposed to say that to another man, so he leaves that piece of information to himself.

Cas actually looks smug at that before he gets serious again. “Then what is the problem?”

“Nothing! I just…”

“This would be easier for you if I had chosen a female vessel,” Castiel says when Dean doesn’t make any more attempts at explaining himself further.

“Probably, yeah,” Dean admits reluctantly, not wanting to hurt Castiel’s feelings but unwilling to lie. Because if Cas looked like a girl, Dean probably wouldn’t have worked so hard to fight that mutual attraction and he’d already be trying to get into his… her… _Cas’s_ pants years ago.

“Well obviously you’re right about me being bi,” and this is the first time Dean admits it out loud, which is funny since he already got to second base with Cas. “The thing is, I’ve never really allowed myself to even think about it and I only stuck to girls. It just wasn’t worth the trouble, you know… before you.”

That brings a smile to Cas’s lips. “I believe I should take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Dean agrees and another stretch of silence follows so he thinks the conversation is over.

“So, back to you and anal sex,” Cas shatters Dean’s hopes with a wrecking ball. “I want you to tell me what it is about it that makes you so scared of it.”

“I’m not scared.” He decides to ignore the amused snort that Cas gives him at that. “It’s just not natural, you know? If two men were supposed to do things like that to each other Mother Nature would’ve given us a dick _and_ a pussy.”

“I see.” For some reason, Cas looks as if he’s trying not to laugh. “It’s interesting that you don’t seem to have a problem with any of the other activities that you do without being equipped for them by… Mother Nature.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“If men were supposed to travel at speeds well over a hundred miles per hour, Mother Nature would’ve given them four wheels and an internal combustion engine.” Cas parrots Dean’s voice perfectly, intonation and all.

Dean’s starting to get a feeling he’s not going to win this with only the _it’s not natural_ argument. If he’s going to win this at all. “Alright, you got me there.” When he throws a sideways glance at the passenger seat, he sees Cas is watching him expectantly, like he wants Dean to continue talking. “Look, it’s… it’s just weird, thinking about putting anything _there_ , okay? Kinda unhygienic, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure you are well aware there are ways of making that statement completely false.”

“Yeah, but still…” Dean feels cornered here so he goes for his last defense. “And it’s gotta hurt like a bitch!”

Cas still seems completely unfazed. “Not if you do it right. As a matter of fact, according to the experiments I have made, it is quite pleasurable.”

“Fuck! Sorry!” Dean waves in apology at the oncoming car that he just barely missed before throwing an accusing glance at Cas. “See what you’ve done now? You nearly got poor Baby hurt!”

“I am sorry.”

Dean spends the following several minutes whispering to Baby, explaining to her that they didn’t mean it and it’s not going to happen again. When he thinks he’s apologized enough for both of them, he turns his attention back to Cas. “So, you’ve been experimenting.”

“With the most satisfactory results,” Cas nods solemnly but Dean could swear he saw a glint of mischievous provocativeness in those blue eyes. His suspicion is confirmed when Cas adds, “I could show you.”

“Oh God, what have I gotten myself into,” Dean mutters and bangs his forehead against the steering wheel.

*

At least Cas doesn’t screw up the FBI agents act this time. He holds his badge the right side up and he doesn’t say anything that would cast doubt upon their authenticity and he’s surprisingly great with the witnesses and the families of the victims. Or maybe not so surprisingly. He has a way of looking at you and making you feel like you really matter, like anything you say or do is important. He’s kind of like Sam in that regard.

“Thank you once again for your time, Mr. and Mrs. Drubecki,” Castiel shakes the elderly married couple’s hands and gives them a warm, sincere smile that has them smiling back despite the graveness of their situation. “I promise me and my partner will do everything in our power to find your son.”

And the best thing is that Dean can tell Cas absolutely means it. He’s back in the business, just like Dean knew he would, because this – helping people, fighting evil – isn’t something you can just cast aside.

*

Working a case with Cas also reminds Dean once again how special what he and Sam have is. Not that doing this with Cas is difficult, Cas is actually really good even as a human hunter, but it’s nowhere near as easy and instinctual as with Sam. Dean and Sam work like a well-oiled machine, there’s an understanding between them that doesn’t even have to be put into words or hand signals anymore, a direct connection, like they know what the other is going to do or say before he actually does it.

Dean knows it’s for the most part because he and Sam spent so much time together and as he casts a furtive glance at Cas, Dean realizes he’s secretly harboring hope that him and Cas will also have that good rapport one day, after many more long years spent together.

“You’re smiling,” Cas whispers, leaning on a shovel – the slacker – and looking down at Dean with a smile of his own.

“I told you working with you would make me happy,” Dean finally deems the hole in the ground deep enough and climbs out to roll the three decapitated vampire bodies inside. “This is awesome, man.”

“You have a very strange concept of awesome.” But Cas is grinning too, so either he shares the same strange concept with Dean or he’s just happy that Dean is happy. Either way, it’s still awesome.

*

Dean knocks on the motel bathroom door impatiently. “Cas, how long do I have to wait? If you use up all the hot water I’m personally gonna–“

“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” Cas shouts back and Dean is pretty sure that’s a lie so he decides the time for idle threats is over and barges in, ready to demonstrate that messing with Dean and his shower time is a very bad idea.

Cas is standing in the shower, eyes closed and face tilted up to meet the spray of water, and he’s wearing an expression of such pure bliss that Dean doesn’t have the heart to yank him out of it, no matter how much he wants to wash the sweat and dirt off himself too.

“There’s space enough for both of us, you know,” Cas says without opening his eyes, running his hands down his soaped chest and then lower, slow and sensuous, inviting Dean to look, to touch.

Dean’s clothes pile on the floor in a wink and then he’s stepping under the warm spray of water, getting his hands on any part of Cas that he can reach, not caring at all that he’s getting him dirty again.

Cas’s mouth is slick and warm and his arms eagerly wrap themselves around Dean, pulling him closer until they’re flush against each other, hard cocks trapped between their bodies and lips still sealed in a kiss. The friction is good but Dean wants more, so he lets his palms slide down Cas’s muscled back to cup those firm asscheeks and press their bodies even closer together.

Moaning into the kiss, Cas rolls his hips and removes one hand from where it lay clutching at Dean’s bicep, places it on top of Dean’s hand instead and guides that hand to the crack of his ass before moving away again, leaving the final decision up to Dean.

Dean concentrates on the short, hot pants that Cas lets out, on the way Cas’s body fits so perfectly against his, on the way their hearts are pounding wildly in their touching chests and on the way their cocks rub against each other, sending sparks of intense pleasure to every molecule of his body.

This is good, him and Cas, and if Cas thinks it could be even better, Dean can be a man about it and trust him. “Okay,” he whispers and slips a finger farther down that valley between Cas’s cheeks, until he finds that tight ring of muscle. When he runs a fingertip over it Cas gives a shudder and a moan so Dean does it again, bolder this time, pushing inside just a little.

“Dean,” Cas groans, resting his forehead against Dean’s shoulder and planting his feet wider apart in invitation.

“Cas? Do you wanna…”

“Yes,” the breathy reply is supported by Cas pushing back against Dean’s finger. “Yes.”

“Okay, how about we move things to the bed then?” It’s going to be easier that way, right?

They don’t bother with towels, just turn the water off and rush to the bedroom where Cas pushes Dean onto the bed with a devious little grin before pulling out a bottle of lube and a packet of condoms from his duffel on the floor.

“I wanted to be prepared,” Cas shrugs at Dean’s slightly dumbfounded look.

“Yeah, you’re a real Boy Scout. C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

Castiel straddles Dean’s hips, knees wide apart for easy access. Again, he takes Dean’s hand, pouring a healthy dose of lube into Dean’s palm and smearing it over his fingers. “Get me ready for you,” he says and Dean nearly comes on the spot, the words combined with the heated look Cas is giving him making him wild and bold, want and need momentarily overpowering all of Dean’s hang-ups about having sex with another man.

Cas makes it look easy, accepting Dean’s fingers one by one with almost no resistance at all, explaining in a hoarse, slightly breathless voice that it’s all about the art of controlling your body right, letting the muscles relax, accepting what is being offered as good and welcome, not as an intrusion.

It sounds a bit too much Zen for Dean’s liking and he sincerely doubts he’d be as cool about this as Cas is, but when Cas tells him he’s ready now and starts sinking onto Dean’s cock, slow but sure, tight and hot, all thoughts but _Casyespleasemore_ fly right out the window.

Dean functions purely on instinct from that moment on, letting his body act on its own, hips thrusting up and into Cas, hands around Cas’s slim waist. He doesn’t get to do much though, Cas does practically all the hard work by himself, rising up and slamming down, lean body arched and mouth slack, head thrown back in pleasure. It’s breathtakingly beautiful because he’s not holding back, taking what he wants, unashamed and uninhibited, fully lost in in the feeling of the two of them together.

Cas comes first, stripping his cock fast and hard until he freezes, muscles locking up around Dean, and shoots all over Dean’s stomach. Dean flips them around then, bends down to kiss Cas on his soft, pliant mouth and starts moving inside him again, encouraged by Cas wrapping his legs around Dean’s waist. He stares into Cas’s eyes and intertwines their fingers because yeah, that’s just who he is deep down, a freaking romantic at heart, and it’s Cas’s soft, desperate “Dean,” that finally takes him over the edge.

*

“How come you’re so cool about the whole sex thing?” Dean asks the next day when they’re driving back to Rexford. He knows he’s possibly just starting another sex talk in the car but he really wants to know and he thinks he’s better prepared for Cas’s answers this time – eyes on the road, hands firmly on the wheel, foot ready at the brake.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Cas seems honestly confused by the question.

“I don’t know, maybe because I remember dragging a very scared-looking you into the ‘den of iniquity’ and then being kicked out,” Dean supplies. It’s a good memory though, one of the few bright moments in a long period of darkness.

“That was before,” Cas says and only continues when Dean stares at him questioningly. “Before I became reconciled with the nature of the human body. I never fully understood it, the way it worked, what it wanted. Becoming human has helped me a lot in that regard.”

It’s true, Dean realizes. When Cas still had his halo, he was always somewhat awkward, clumsy in his own skin… or Jimmy’s skin. Whatever. Even when he tried to fit in as a human, there was always something off about him, as if Cas had to put conscious effort into looking as normal as possible and still he never fully managed to pull it off. But now, as if Cas was a puppet that came alive, there’s not a trace of that clumsiness in him left and he’s all fluid, easy grace.

“It took me some time, but now that I’ve accepted these wants and urges as my own, life is much easier.” Cas looks at Dean thoughtfully. “I think you should try it too.”

Dean’s cock gives an interested twitch in his pants at the way Cas says _wants and urges_ but he ignores that. “Try what?”

“Letting go, allowing yourself to have what you want. See, I am no longer conflicted about giving my body what it asks for. After all, humans were created to touch and taste, to sense, to feel. Sex is a good thing and I see no reason why I should avoid it, especially since we both desire it.”

“You’ve been around me for way too long,” Dean shakes his head in mock disbelief.

“No amount of time spent with you would be too long.”

“Yeah, you say that now,” Dean pops a cassette into the player and chuckles as Cas startles when _Motörhead_ starts blasting from the speakers.

But then Cas surprises him by turning the volume up, nodding his head in rhythm to the music. He kind of reminds Dean of that hippie Cas from the apocalyptic future Zachariah had shown him, all relaxed and laid-back and smiling. But they clearly aren’t the same. That other Cas was smiling because the end was near, because he had nothing to lose and the only other option he had was crying his heart out. This Cas, though, is smiling at Dean because something new might be starting here, something good and promising, something worth fighting for.

And that’s why Dean smiles back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Dean and Castiel's date doesn't exactly go as planned.

“Hey, Steve!” Lance, one of the regular delivery men, hollers as he enters the store, waving at Castiel from the door. “How you doin’?”

Castiel looks up from the paperwork he was just finishing. “Good. How are you?”

Lance drops a stack of magazines on the counter in front of Castiel. “Me and the guys are going for a beer later tonight. You wanna come?”

Just as Castiel opens his mouth, ready to start spewing excuses, he hears the familiar loud engine from outside. He looks there and sure, there’s the Impala and there’s Dean, just getting out of the car and heading towards the door. “I…”

Lance looks in that direction too, cackles and claps Castiel on the shoulder. “Yeah, don’t sweat it. Your man’s here, you got other plans for tonight.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, grateful for Lance’s understanding and for his tolerance. Over the weeks Dean’s been visiting Castiel, he’s become very well known to anyone who goes to the store regularly, and everyone who goes to the store regularly is also aware of the nature of Castiel and Dean’s relationship. It’s not like they’re being obvious about it, rubbing it in people’s faces, but by mutual agreement they’re also not hiding it either.

Snapping his fingers in front of Castiel’s face, Lance laughs again. “Hey! You still with me?”

“Of course.” Castiel signs the delivery form for Lance. “Maybe I could go with you some other time?”

“Sure. See you.” Lance claps him on the shoulder again, then subjects Dean, who just walks in, to the same treatment by way of greeting. “Have fun, guys!”

Puzzled, Dean turns to stare at Lance for a moment before refocusing his gaze on Cas. “What’s up with him?”

“He’s being friendly,” Cas explains and waits until Dean leans over to kiss him hello. That’s when he notices something’s off. “You don’t look so well,” he says, the words leaving his mouth before he has the chance to stop them. Not that he would.

Dean pauses in surprise. “Geez, thanks, man. Nice to see you too.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel shakes his head. “What I said didn’t imply I wasn’t happy to see you. I merely pointed out that you look worse than usual.”

“Thanks, that’s even better.” Dean taps his foot on the floor several times impatiently. “I’m just beat from the drive here, I guess. Can we go now? I could really use a beer.”

“I don’t think you should consume alcohol considering the state you’re in,” Castiel locks the cash register and takes off his vest before doing the usual quick inspection of the store, checking that everything is as it’s supposed to be. Dean waits by the counter, leaning against it and watching Castiel with a bored expression.

“Let’s just go home,” Castiel suggests as they leave the store and he locks it. “Get you all nice and comfortable.”

Dean grins at that, tongue peeking out between his teeth. “You trying to get me into your bed, Cas?”

“Would that be a bad thing?”

Nodding solemnly, Dean says, “Tragic. I don’t think I would survive.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Language, my angel!”

*

By the time they climb the stairs to Castiel’s apartment, it’s very clear that Dean is unwell. He falls behind on the stairs, his steps heavy and tired, and he’s nearly out of breath when he finally makes it up.

“Dean, are you sick?”

For a moment, Dean looks as if Castiel is speaking another language – which he isn’t, he’s always been very careful about that – or as if the word _sick_ is absolutely foreign to him. “No,” he says finally, the denial undermined by the way he sways on his feet and has to steady himself with a hand on Castiel’s shoulder so he doesn’t end up on the floor.

Worried, Castiel steps closer, intending to support Dean better, but he pauses in surprise when he puts his hands on Dean and feels the heat coming off his body even through the usual layers of clothing Dean is wearing. “You appear sick to me.”

“It’s just a bug,” Dean grumbles and tries to swat Castiel’s hands away unsuccessfully.

“What bug? You were bitten by a poisonous insect?” Now worried even more, Castiel starts looking for bite marks or stings on Dean’s skin, but he doesn’t find any on the skin that he can see, so he starts unbuttoning Dean’s shirt to continue his search.

“No, bug as a virus infection,” Dean pushes at Castiel’s searching hands again weakly. “But it’s gonna be fine. I popped a handful of Tylenol on the way here, it’s gonna be fine, you’ll see.”

Tylenol is a brand of drugs used for reducing pain, fever and the symptoms of some of the more common human diseases; Castiel has spent enough time among the humans to know that. “So you were already sick before you set out?”

“Not sick, dammit.” But Dean sinks heavily into a chair, leaning against the backrest. “I’m telling you, Cas, it’s no big deal.”

Castiel isn’t prepared for the anger that swells inside him at those flippant words. “Yes, it is!” Dean jerks at the outburst, but Castiel doesn’t care, he needs to drive his point home. “You’re barely keeping your eyes open, you could’ve had an accident on the way here. You could’ve died! Did you not think about that?”

Dean stares up at him, frowning, before he hangs his head, whether in shame or because of weariness, Castiel can’t tell. “I wanted to see you, be here with you,” he mutters finally.

“Well, now you’re here and you’re in no shape to do anything but rest,” Castiel says sharply, determined to resist the cuteness that is sleepy, drowsy, pouting Dean Winchester. “And that is exactly what you will do. Come on, get up.”

Surprisingly, Dean obeys, pushing himself up to his feet and looking at Castiel questioningly, as if expecting another order. It’s uncanny.

“You need to lie down,” Castiel says and starts undressing Dean, having concluded that the task might be too difficult for Dean to do on his own. Again, Dean just stands there and lets Castiel undress him, obediently raising his hands or lifting his feet when prompted until finally he’s down to his boxers and a t-shirt and Castiel guides him to the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, watching with feverish eyes as Castiel tucks him in. “Didn’t mean to make you mad.”

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Castiel smiles and shakes his head. “I’m not mad, just worried.”

“’Kay.”

“When was the last time you’ve eaten?”

Dean frowns in deep thought. “I dunno.”

“You know, for someone who’s so good at taking care of others, you are remarkably bad at taking care of yourself.” Castiel sighs and shakes his head before rising off the bed and getting a cup of yogurt from the small fridge in the kitchenette. He’s not sure this is the most suitable food, but it’s something he doesn’t have to prepare and it’s easy to eat, so he uncaps it and hands it to Dean together with a spoon.

“I can take care of myself,” Dean resumes their conversation after eating several spoonfuls, his hand shaking every time he raises it to his mouth. “I told you, a handful of Tylenols and some Red Bull and I’ll be good as new.”

Unable to watch Dean struggling with the spoon anymore, Castiel gently takes it from his hand. He is met with an offended glare first and for a second he thinks he's overstepped his mark with this, but then Dean just opens his mouth and lets himself be fed.

“If Sam was sick, would you just tell him to take some pills and drink Red Bulls and expect him to be fine?”

“’Course not,” the reply is immediate and Castiel can see the moment when Dean realizes he’s been duped by the question. “But that’s different.”

“Different how?”

Dean swallows a spoon of yogurt before answering morosely, “Jus’ different.” The words are slurred and Dean looks very tired so Castiel decides to let him off the hook for this once.

“You should get some sleep,” he says when the yogurt is all eaten and it is a sign of how unwell Dean feels when he doesn’t protest at all, nestling down into the blankets. His eyelids are drooping but each time it seems he’s going to fall asleep, he jerks himself awake, eyes searching until they lock on Castiel’s face.

Castiel finally understands. “I’m not going anywhere, Dean. You can sleep.”

“Promise?” The voice is small, and mixed with Dean’s appearance – the sleepy, dazed eyes, hair ruffled and sticking in every direction, mouth slightly open – it makes Castiel think of a small, lost boy looking for assurance, for comfort. Dean never had that as a child, his father often gone for weeks, but leaving him with the task of being that assuring, comforting figure for Sam.

“Promise,” Castiel squeezes Dean’s shoulder gently and leans in to kiss his sweaty brow. When he pulls back to give him one more smile, Dean’s eyes are already closed and his breathing is even in his sleep.

*

“Cas!” Dean sits up abruptly, supporting himself with his hands to stay upright, and his eyes search the room until he finds Castiel and relaxes slightly. The expression of alarm is replaced by one of bewilderment. “Cas, what are you doing on the floor?”

Placing aside the book he was reading, Castiel replies, “Reading.”

Dean nods and appears to be satisfied with the answer for a moment, but then he blinks and his face scrunches up in a grimace. “I can see that, but why are you doing that on the floor in a sleeping bag?”

“Because you need space in the bed to be able to sleep comfortably,” Castiel explains patiently, hoping for understanding.

“So you just decided to sleep on the floor?”

“Yes.”

Grappling with the blanket, Dean tries to untangle himself and stand up, but his movements are too uncoordinated for him to succeed. He scowls at the blanket. “This is stupid. I didn’t mean to throw you out of your own bed.”

“I’m telling you, it’s alright.” Castiel stands up and walks to the kitchenette, returning with a cup of herbal tea and handing it to Dean. “I’ve done some research. You need to stay hydrated.”

Dean takes the cup and gulps the warm tea down gratefully before giving it back. “Research?”

“I called Nora, asked her how to treat a viral infection. She was most helpful.”

Dean’s eyebrows climb up and he grins. “Was she now?”

Ignoring the suggestion, Castiel goes on. “She explained everything to me and stopped by to bring me some vitamins and herbs.” He refills the tea from a thermos and gives it to Dean together with a couple of pills. “Here.”

Dean drinks, again downing the whole cup. “Thanks, Cas, I really appreciate it.” He grabs Castiel by the hand, using it to pull himself into a standing position. “But I really think you should take the bed, I feel like crap for occupying it like this.”

Castiel knows he could easily overpower Dean, considering the state the man is in, but he wants to reason with him instead, coax him into accepting the situation willingly. “As I already told you, I am completely fine in the sleeping bag. Besides, even if I changed my mind, the bedclothes are already soaked up with your sweat and I could catch the same thing you have. I’m not sure my body has retained the immunity Jimmy Novak's body used to have.” He should probably get vaccinated just to be sure.

But apparently using logic in an argument with Dean Winchester is a vain effort and so Castiel finally resorts to using brute force and pushes Dean back into bed. “Stay.”

Dean glares at him accusingly. “You’re bossy.”

“And you’re sick and weak so you have to do what I say.” If Castiel is enjoying this maybe a bit too much, he believes he’s perfectly justified in doing it. After all, he’s been through a lot lately, and a large portion of his troubles and heartaches were caused by Dean kicking him out of the bunker, so even if Castiel understands that particular decision and doesn’t blame Dean for making it, he isn’t above a little payback.

Dean glares some more but eventually sleep takes him again.

*

Castiel is woken by distressed moans and keening sounds. He sits up, turning the flashlight he keeps at hand on so he can see what’s going on.

In his restless sleep, Dean is tossing and turning in the bed, face glistening with sweat even in the faint light of the flashlight, and the expression on his face is one of clear pain and distress, bordering on terror.

It makes him think of the first months after he’d pulled Dean out of Hell, when he, despite Heaven’s orders, spent whole nights by Dean’s side, fighting the worst of the nightmares away with a touch or a positive thought. But those nightmares looked different than the one Dean is having now. The dreams of Hell used to immobilize Dean with fear, paralyzed him, and most of the time he hadn’t even made a sound, whereas now he’s constantly moving, reaching out with his hands as if trying to keep hold of something.

“No, please don’t go,” Dean whines plaintively from his sleep. “Don’t go, don’t go,” he repeats over and over, begging as his white-knuckled fingers clutch desperately onto the blanket.

Castiel wishes he could see inside Dean’s mind like he used to when he was still an angel so he’d know who Dean is talking about, whose departure is darkening his dreams. The sad truth is it could be practically anyone Dean ever cared about, from his parents and family to his friends. They all left him at some point or another, intentionally or not, including Castiel himself.

Well, he’s here now and he’s not going anywhere.

“I’m here,” he says, keeping his voice calm and comforting but louder than a whisper, hoping to penetrate the thick veil of Dean’s nightmare. He slips out of the sleeping bag and sits at the edge of the bed, placing his hand over Dean’s. “I’m here and I’m not going to leave.”

Dean swallows uneasily and lets go of the blanket, wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s hand instead. “Sammy. I had to,” he whispers, sounding apologetic now, and still frightened. “You were dying, I had to…”

This is about Ezekiel, Castiel realizes. Dean is afraid of Sam’s reaction once he finds out, probably also afraid of Sam ejecting the angel before he’s well enough to be able to function on his own.

“It’s alright, Dean, everything is alright,” he repeats emphatically until the creases marring Dean’s brow smooth out, Dean’s grip on Castiel’s hand loosens and his breathing slows down.

Castiel waits a while longer before going back to sleep himself, moving the sleeping bag closer to the bed in case Dean needs him again.

*

Dean looks better in the morning, but Castiel, after his lengthy conversation with Nora yesterday, knows it doesn’t mean it’s over yet. The human temperature is always lowest in the morning but it will probably rise again as the day grows older.

Still, Dean is well enough to take a trip to the bathroom by himself and comes back showered and looking refreshed. He eats the breakfast Castiel’s prepared for him at the table and then returns to bed without having to be prompted, looking tired again already.

“This is stupid,” Dean grumbles from his warm cocoon in the pillows. “I wanted to take you to the Yellowstone Bear World, see some wildlife.” He laughs. “They have moose, it’d be like being with Sammy.”

Castiel opens his mouth to ask what that means but then he remembers that Moose is the nickname Crowley has for Sam. Apparently Dean finds it fitting, too. “We can go next time. Or we could go once Sam is healed and Ezekiel-free, take him with us to see for ourselves whether the resemblance is as striking as Crowley seems to think.”

Another bout of laughter from Dean follows, and Castiel joins in this time. But when Dean is done laughing, he instantly does a U-turn and goes from smiling to depressed in a millisecond. “He’s gonna kill me when he finds out.”

“He’s not,” Castiel says, not having to ask what Dean is talking about, and at Dean’s skeptical look, he goes on, “it’s probably going to take Sam some time to come to terms with what was done to him–“

“What _I_ did to him,” Dean corrects him, clearly in flagellant mode again. It seems to be one of his favorites and frankly, Castiel is getting tired of it.

“Yes, what you did to him,” he concedes and sees Dean flinch. “What you did _for_ him.”

“He was ready to go, Cas,” Dean mumbles heavily. “I saw it, when Ezekiel took me inside Sam’s head. He was at peace, ready to go. And I took that away from him because I just couldn’t stand the idea of being without him.”

“He made his choice when he agreed to let you help,” Castiel says, remembering everything Dean told him about that day, about how he and Ezekiel tricked Sam into saying yes to an angel. He wants to say more now, comfort Dean better, but he doesn’t think he can. This complicated mess is strictly between Sam and Dean.

“What if he won't talk to me again?” Dean asks, and the lost little boy from last night is back. “We promised we’d never keep secrets from each other again, but all I've done since Ezekiel entered him is lying right in his face. What the hell was I thinking, allowing an angel to possess him?” His voice is breaking around the edges; he’s losing control over his emotions fast and it’s getting on Castiel’s nerves, too. “After everything that happened to him with Meg and then Lucifer he’d never willingly agree to be stripped of the control over his own body. He’d rather die.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you let Ezekiel in,” Castiel snaps.

“Yeah, and that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it?” Dean shouts, then lets out another slightly insane laugh. He shakes his head. “I _never_ think straight when it comes to Sam. It’s like when you’re drowning and grabbing for anything to keep you afloat, and it doesn’t matter whether the thing you end up holding onto is good or bad, it only matters that you’re not pulled under.” When he looks up, his eyes are gleaming with tears and with the fever that is apparently returning. “I don’t know why I’m like that.”

Castiel doesn’t know either. He’d seen a lot of things in his time as an angel – pain and violence and aggression and evil, but also love and loyalty and sacrifice, ordinary people capable of extraordinary, heroic acts, spreading good and love around selflessly. But he’s never seen anything as strong as the bond between the two Winchester brothers; even though the rope holding them together is twisted and charred and tattered in places, it’s still firm and unbreakable and completely beyond his understanding.

“If I had let him finish the third Trial, Hell would be closed. We’d practically save the world. But I told him to stop... Why do I do that? And why aren’t I like that with you?” Dean asks, staring at Castiel questioningly, suddenly looking young and innocent, trustful, as if believing that Castiel knows all the answers. “You know how much you mean to me, right?”

“Yes, I know,” Castiel leans over Dean and their gazes lock.

“You know I love you, right?” Dean reaches out his hands to Castiel, laying his palms, hot and sweaty, on either side of his face. “I’d die for you. I’d kill for you.”

“I know,” Castiel repeats and pries Dean’s hands from his cheeks, puts them back on his chest.

“Then why–“

“Shh.” Placing a finger on Dean’s lips, Castiel gives him a stern, authoritative look. “No more talking. You need more rest.”

Dean frowns and moves his lips against the finger. “But–“

“No buts.” Castiel carefully maintains the authoritative façade and tone and hopes that it will work on Dean. He truly doesn’t wish to continue this conversation, knowing well that it would solve nothing and only serve to open old wounds, both Dean's and his own. “Rest.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Then let’s watch some TV,” Castiel suggests and turns on the old television that was left in the apartment after its previous occupant.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he scoots over on the bed, making more room. Castiel takes the hint and gets in, settling beside Dean who immediately cuddles up to him.

“What would you like to watch?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Castiel surfs through the channels until he finds a documentary on current fashion trends in East Asia. He knows practically nothing about fashion and the whole matter of various clothing styles, haircuts and makeup still confuses him greatly so he leaves it on, hoping to learn something new. He expects Dean to make a snide remark about it but none comes and when he turns his head, he discovers that Dean is sleeping again.

He refocuses his attention on the TV screen. Apparently triangle-shaped faces are very fashionable in China these days and many Chinese women pay vast amounts of money for plastic surgery to achieve the desired effect. Sometimes Castiel thinks he doesn’t understand humans any more than he did the first time he met them.

*

Dean sleeps through most of the morning, for which Castiel is grateful. His disastrous first attempt at making chicken noodle soup was an embarrassment that certainly didn’t need any witnesses.

Castiel is forced to resort to calling Nora again, and thankfully she is eternally patient with him, explaining the steps one by one until finally the soup is ready and when he tries it, he proudly calls her again to inform her that it actually tastes quite good.

“I knew you could make it, Steve,” she laughs into the phone while baby Tanya is crying in the background. “Sorry, I gotta go, my girl demands my full, undivided attention.”

“Thank you,” Castiel manages to say before she hangs up, and then he starts to set the table.

“Cas? What’s that?” a drowsy voice comes from the bed. Dean is sitting up, squinting at the table confusedly before rubbing his eyes and then squinting again. “Huh. You made dinner?”

“Chicken noodle soup,” Castiel says nonchalantly, enjoying immensely the look of wonder that appears on Dean’s face. “I’ve never done it before, but it wasn’t really that difficult. Piece of cake.”

Dean throws off his blanket and stands up, scratches his head. “Dude, that’s pretty epic,” he mutters before disappearing into the bathroom.

Castiel allows himself a smug smile. He likes being told he’s epic.

*

Dean’s temperature rises in the afternoon. Castiel makes him take the vitamins and some Tylenol and carefully monitors his fluid intake.

They watch some more TV, a documentary about European fortified cities that clearly catches Dean’s interest if one can judge by the way his eyes widen and he sits up attentively when the narrator describes medieval siege technology and strategies. He actually seems disappointed when the documentary ends and Castiel makes a mental note himself to find some books on this topic. It would be a nice Christmas gift.

Another documentary follows; this one is about the new seven wonders of the world. Dean gets very excited when he sees the ancient temple in Petra, rambling enthusiastically about something called  _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_ , but falls silent after, watching attentively as the other wonders are shown.

“I’ve never done the whole tourist thing,” Dean says, eyes glued to the TV screen that now shows the Taj Mahal. “I’ve criss-crossed the States a billion times, but aside from a couple of short hunting trips to Mexico and Canada and that one scary flight to Scotland, I haven’t seen much of the world. And even the places I’ve been to… it was always just get there, find the bad thing, kill it, leave. Never had the time or chance to do any sightseeing or stuff like that.”

“I never knew you wanted to,” Castiel frowns, mildly surprised. He wishes he had known, back when he was still an angel. He could teleport Dean anywhere he’d want to, show him the world. Dean has always openly expressed his dislike of the way Castiel would _zap_ him from place to place, but Castiel thinks he actually got used to it over time. In any case, it was clear that Dean would prefer the angel transportation over airplanes any day.

“Damn right I wanted to,” the feverish eyes finally look away from the screen, locking onto Castiel instead. “There was this girl once, Robin. I dated her for a couple of months when I was sixteen; we actually had our whole future together planned out.” A strange, melancholy smile settles on Dean’s face. “She’d be a famous photographer, travel around the world and take pictures. I’d be her car mechanic and bodyguard, keep the Impala in good condition.”

“The Impala?” Castiel turns the TV off, they’re not watching it now anyway and he wants  to be able to concentrate on this conversation  better.

Dean chuckles, but his eyes still have that sad tint to them. “Yeah, there’s no way I’d leave my Baby behind, right? We’d drive across the whole world, see all kinds of cool places and meet new people, eat exotic food and have lots of sex in Baby’s backseat, that kind of stuff.”

“I had no idea,” is all Castiel can come up with, his heart clenching in pain. He knows that even if Dean had fought for this different life he’d still be pulled back into all this anyway, considering the plans Heaven had with him. He shakes the gloomy thought off and asks instead, “So what happened?”

Another chuckle, then a pensive smile. “Reality happened. I couldn’t leave Sammy, couldn’t leave Dad, the family business…” Dean takes a deep breath and gives another smile, this one brighter, braver. “But I’m okay with that now, just so you know. Hunting is my life, and I’ve got Sammy and you, so…”

Castiel smiles back, his heart fluttering at the casual spontaneity with which Dean includes him into his life now.

“And hey, so maybe I don’t have a hot girlfriend, but the back of the Impala's seen _lots_ of action,” Dean winks, lightening the mood easily, probably doing it on purpose. “It’s pretty awesome. You should try it one day. Sooner rather than later. And with me, I mean.”

Unable to fight it, Castiel feels his smile widening as warmth spreads through him, coloring his cheeks. “I think I could be persuaded to agree.”

“What, _persuaded_? Aren’t my stellar looks enough for you?” Dean frowns and looks down at himself self-consciously before glancing back at Castiel. “Except I don’t really look that good now, do I?”

Objectively, Dean probably doesn’t. His skin is pale and clammy, there are dark circles under his eyes, his sweat-soaked hair is sticking to his face and generally he looks very much like a half-drowned kitten. But for Castiel there still is no other answer than “You always look good to me.”

Dean stares at him for a moment. “That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not,” Castiel wants to prove his point and so he takes Dean’s hand and guides it to his crotch, where his cock, awakened by Dean’s earlier innuendo, stirs inside his jeans. “See? This is what you do to me, with just a couple of words.”

Dean’s breathing hitches and his eyes widen but he keeps the hand in place, even pressing on a little. “And I’m gonna do so much more.” But then a shiver runs through him and he presses his eyes shut for a moment and licks his dry lips. “Just not tonight, I’m afraid.”

“That’s perfectly alright,” Castiel assures him, taking Dean’s hand again and placing it back on Dean’s chest, squeezing gently before he lets go. He moves away but is stopped by a hoarse “Cas, wait.”

“Yes?”

Without words, Dean tugs and pushes and pulls until he has Castiel arranged the way he wants him – kneeling on the bed above him, legs on either side of Dean’s waist. Only then does Dean speak. “I’m still kinda tired, don’t really feel like doing anything myself, but…” He licks his lips again, slow and deliberate this time, and grins victoriously when Castiel lets out a small moan. “How about you give me a little show?”

At first, Castiel doesn’t follow, but when Dean drops his gaze from Castiel’s eyes to his crotch meaningfully, it all falls into place. “You want me to masturbate in front of you.”

Dean sighs. “Cas, what did I tell you about talking like a doctor?”

“You told me not to,” Castiel says dutifully and corrects his previous sentence: “You want me to jerk off in front of you.”

“Hell yeah,” Dean breathes out and shifts until he’s resting his head on crossed hands. “I love it when you talk like that. It’s so dirty.”

Personally, Castiel doesn’t quite comprehend the appeal that coarse language holds for Dean, but he doesn’t have to understand it in order to be able to do it. All that matters is that Dean enjoys it. “I can be dirty,” he intentionally lowers his voice, having learned long ago how much Dean likes that. “Just watch.”

Never breaking eye contact with Dean, Castiel stands up and strips, going slow and teasing at first, but the way Dean’s breathing quickens and grows ragged makes him even harder than he already was, and also impatient. He quickly climbs back on top of Dean and takes himself in hand, gives his cock a slow, firm pull.

“Fuck you’re hot,” Dean rasps as his eyes travel up and down Castiel’s body, taking everything in hungrily. “So fucking hot.”

Feeling incredibly powerful, Castiel arches his body and continues stroking himself with his right hand, resting the left on Dean’s chest for balance. “You like watching me like this? Hard and leaking, just for you?” Using his thumb, he smears a drop of precome that leaks out of his slit across the head of his cock and he doesn’t miss the hungry way Dean licks his lips and swallows loudly. “You want a taste?”

Instead of answering, Dean parts his mouth in invitation and Castiel runs his thumb over the full lower lip, gasping when Dean flicks out his tongue to lick at the digit before sucking it inside his mouth. “When you’re feeling better,” he says and wraps his other hand around his cock instead, picking up pace, unable to keep it slow due to the tantalizing imagery, “I’m going to put more than just my fingers in there.”

In response, Dean moans around the finger in his mouth and sucks harder, clearly on board with the idea.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Castiel keeps on talking, not sure he could stop even if he wanted to. The words just keep flowing and he’s not sure where do they come from because he’s never done this before. It’s like his mouth just knows what to say without him having to even think about it, Dean being the only inspiration he needs. “Me filling your mouth like that, letting you taste it, feel it with your tongue.”

Dean moans again, louder and wretched, and nods, encouraging Castiel to continue.

It makes Castiel bolder, makes him say things he’s not sure he should be saying because it might not be the right time yet. Things like this: “Or maybe you’d like me to put it elsewhere. Have you spread your legs for me, work you open with my fingers and then fuck you until you’d scream yourself hoarse.”

Dean pushes Castiel’s finger out of his mouth. “You better keep that promise.” And then he’s sucking on the thumb again, grinning around it.

“Oh, I will,” Castiel rasps, feeling his orgasm drawing near as his heart races, blood thrumming in his ears and that now-familiar tingling sensation starts in his testicles and spreads through his whole body until he can’t take it anymore. His hips jerk forward involuntarily and he stifles a cry, closing his fist over the head of his pulsing, spurting erection. Suddenly feeling lightheaded, he leans over, resting his head on Dean’s forehead, waiting until his heartbeat slows down.

“That was hot,” Dean whispers, his breath moist and tickling at Castiel’s open, panting mouth. “We need to do that again. A lot.”

“I have no objections,” Castiel says once he’s capable of rational thought again, pushing himself back into a more upright position and letting his hand move down Dean’s chest, heading for his crotch. “Do you want–“

But his hand is stopped in its progress. “Nah, don’t think I’d be up to it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Actually, your little show kinda wore me out,” Dean admits, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Alright.” Castiel rolls off his partner and settles beside him, pulling the cover over himself. He’s not going to catch the cold form Dean, he decides, ordering his body to listen.

They lie in silence.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?” He thought Dean has fallen asleep again.

Turning his head so he can meet Castiel’s eyes, Dean clears his throat nervously. “What you said, about fucking me…”

Castiel waits, holding his breath.

Dean exhales sharply. “I meant it, you know. I wanna try it.” He lets out a short laugh. “I can’t believe it myself, man, but… when I’m fucking you it seems like you really enjoy it so I figured it must be good, right?”

“Very good,” Castiel can’t help smiling.

“Okay.” Dean nods, looking relieved, like a heavy weight has just been taken off his mind. “I just wanted you to know. That I’m ready.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Okay.”

Castiel thinks about it, still not quite able to believe how easy Dean is taking this now, how surprisingly quickly he’s getting rid of his inhibitions and all the prejudice that he’s lived with his entire life. Maybe it’s because it feels good, maybe Dean is finally realizing that not all of the walls he’s build around himself are strictly necessary and some of them are even serving more like prison walls than protective ones.

He’s just going to ask Dean about it when he notices that Dean’s eyes are closed and once again, the man is asleep.

Careful not to disturb him, Castiel climbs out of the bed and gets dressed again. He opens the window and looks outside. It’s already getting dark and the clear air feels very refreshing, bringing new life into his still slightly rubbery limbs.

When the room is well ventilated, he closes the window and puts the kettle on for tea, sits at the table, opens _The Brothers Karamazov_ and starts reading, occasionally casting glances at Dean to check on him.

*

Dean is in the shower – his third today, and still he complains about being all sweaty and stinky – and Castiel is airing out his bedclothes, spreading them out over every piece of furniture he has and letting the cool night air in, when Dean’s cellphone starts ringing.

Glancing at the display, Castiel reads _Sam calling_ and without hesitating answers the phone. It could be important, Dean once told him to never not answer the phone when it’s him or Sam calling. “Hello?”

“Hey, Dean–“ Sam breaks off. “Castiel? Is that you?”

Doesn’t Sam know that Dean is with Castiel? “Yes.”

Sam sounds confused and concerned. “Is… is Dean there with you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Huh.” Another pause. “Um, Cas, is he okay? He was supposed to check in with me hours ago, I was getting worried something bad happened to him.”

“No, nothing bad,” Castiel says quickly and hears Sam’s relieved exhalation on the other side of the line. “He just didn’t feel well when he got here yesterday, I think he has a cold, so I made him rest and I’m taking care of him. You don’t need to worry.”

“Thanks, man,” Sam says, not very convinced. “So, he does this a lot? Visit you?”

Oh. Castiel isn’t sure what he’s supposed to reveal and what not. “Well, he–“

The bathroom door flings open and Dean is there, naked except for the towel around his waist and his flushed skin is wet, dripping water on the floor. He takes the phone from Castiel. “Hey, Sammy! Yeah, I’m good. Really, man.”

Castiel grabs Dean by his shoulder and drags him back into the bathroom, closing the door behind them so the cold air from outside can’t get in. The last thing they need now is Dean getting worse because he stood in the draft, naked and wet.

Sam says something to Dean but Castiel can’t make out the words.

“What?” Dean laughs and the sound is natural but the way he grimaces isn’t. “No, of course not! It was just closer to Cas’s place than to the bunker and so I figured I might crash here since I wasn’t feeling so well.”

Dean is lying, Castiel realizes. He’s making up excuses why he’s with Castiel because Sam clearly had no idea they have been meeting like this for over a month now. It hurts at first, feels like he’s Dean’s dirty secret, but as he listens to Dean explaining himself to Sam on the phone, Castiel comes to understand. This isn’t about hiding him, it’s about protecting Sam. Again.

With a last “Sure, Sam, I’ll be careful,” Dean ends the call and meets Castiel’s eyes reluctantly, biting on his lip nervously and cringing slightly as if expecting a scolding. “Look, Cas…”

“I know,” Castiel suddenly feels very, very tired. “If he knew about us, he’d want me to come back with you and Ezekiel would have no other choice but to leave his body.”

“Yeah,” Dean starts shivering, goose bumps appearing on his skin, and he quickly starts drying himself off. “I hate doing this to you, Cas,” he mumbles as he slips into a fresh pair of boxers and a t-shirt. “Trust me, the moment it won’t be dangerous to Sam anymore, I’ll come clean about you. About us.”

“I know,” Castiel repeats and strokes Dean’s damp hair, loving the way Dean leans into the touch, like he’s wordlessly reaffirming the strength of the bond between them. Castiel hears the words clearly and so he says again, “I know.”

He hides the slowly fading sense of disappointment behind a smile, well aware that Dean is no happier with this arrangement than he is. But it’s how it has to be for now.

*

The next day is Monday and Castiel has to go to work. He seriously considers calling in sick and staying with Dean, not quite trusting Dean’s promise that he’ll be a good patient, but Dean looks so offended at the suggestion that he’s not able to take care of himself that eventually Castiel decides to go.

When she sees Castiel, Nora smiles at him and asks how Dean is doing and seems genuinely glad when he tells her Dean’s getting better.

Castiel calls to check on Dean every hour or so until Dean calls him an inconsiderate bastard, complaining that every time he falls asleep he’s woken up by Castiel’s call.

*

When he gets back home, he finds Dean sitting in bed and completely absorbed in _Crime and Punishment_. He barely looks up from the book to say “Hey, Cas,” and then he’s back to reading.

Castiel removes his jacket and silently creeps up on Dean. He’s still being ignored, but that’s okay with him, he has a plan. He opens the plastic food box in his hands and lifts it until it’s very close to Dean’s head.

Dean sniffs, turns a page in the book, then sniffs again and snaps his head to the side. “Pie?”

Unable to stifle a chuckle, Castiel takes a step back to get the pastry away from Dean’s grabby hands. “Yes, Nora was baking yesterday and she was kind enough to save some for us. She said to tell you to get better.”

“Well I’m definitely better now,” Dean slips out of the bed, his movements much more confident and coordinated than yesterday. “Give me.”

Dodging the grabby hands, Castiel quickly backs away and places the box on the table. “Let’s be civilized about this.”

“Withholding pie isn’t civilized,” Dean grumbles but obeys, getting dressed more properly and even going to wash his hands. “It’s against the Geneva Conventions.”

They eat the pie, Castiel in silence and Dean very vocal in his appreciation, going as far as asking if Nora is still single and if she’d be possibly interested in him, which earns him a cuff on the head. “Hey! No hurting the weak and sick!”

“You were asking for it so shut up,” Castiel retorts. He’s not sure why, but he truly enjoys riling Dean up. Making Dean frustrated or sulky like this is quickly becoming one of his favorite pastimes.

***

“How long do we have to keep doing this?” Castiel asks two days later when they’re standing in the parking lot in front of the Gas-N-Sip and Dean is all set and ready to go. Actually, Dean has been all set and ready to go for over half an hour already but they just can’t seem to be able to say goodbye. Or, more precisely, to say goodbye and actually _part._

Dean kicks a stone under his foot, watches it roll. “Not sure. Ezekiel says a couple more weeks.”

“I can wait that long.” Castiel frowns, realizing something. “I’m actually going to miss this place, Dean. The store, Nora, the regular customers…”

“Even Mrs. Gordecki?”

Castiel snorts and shakes his head. “No, I don’t suppose I’ll miss her very much.”

“Well, she’s sure as Hell going to miss bitching at you,” Dean chuckles, mischief sparking in his green eyes and he’s beautiful, so beautiful and Castiel never wants to let him go. “No way she’s finding another victim as patient and polite as you.”

“Poor Mrs. Gordecki,” Castiel says solemnly but soon breaks into a laugh, Dean joining him instantly.

They laugh out loud, with their mouths open and so close that when their lips meet in a kiss, the transition is smooth and fluid. Dean cradles Castiel’s head in one hand and Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, drawing him even closer until their bodies are touching, pressing against one another, and it’s warmth and comfort and everything that is good and right.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” Dean whispers into Castiel’s mouth and then they’re kissing again until a passer-by tells them to get a room and they finally let go of each other, standing there awkwardly like two teenagers caught making out by their parents.

“Sorry about that,” Dean licks his kiss-swollen lips and looks at Castiel sheepishly. “I can go away but you’re the one who has to stay here and hear about it.”

“Nobody’s tried to make an issue out of it so far,” Castiel assures him patiently although they’ve already been over this many times, Dean always worrying about the way the locals treat him. “Mostly people just don’t care or they are actually even nice to me.” And it’s true, although he has no idea why that is. People just seem to react to something in him that brings out the good in them; they always have, ever since his first day as a human.

“Good. That’s good,” Dean says, his voice steadier now, the breathlessness gone, replaced by the usual deep roughness. “But listen, any sign of trouble–“

“I’ll call, I know.” They’ve been over this many times too. “But I’ll be alright.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Um, I should…”

“Yes, you should.”

They exchange one last quick kiss, Dean pats Castiel on the shoulder and gets into the Impala, starting the engine but not leaving yet. He rolls down the window and calls, “You going out for that beer with the guys tonight?”

“Yes.” Lance and the rest of the delivery guys said he should bring Dean with him too, but that’s for another night.

Dean is grinning. “Have one on me, okay?”

“I will.”

“But don’t drink too much, you don’t wanna end up lying in some gutter covered in glitter and wearing lipstick or something.”

Castiel thinks there might be a story behind that, but it’s not time for that now. He really needs to go to work. “I’ll drink moderately, I promise. Unlike _someone_ I am actually quite responsible when it comes to my health.”

“Oh, God, not that speech again,” Dean groans and gives Castiel a wave, pulling out of the parking lot.

“You’re such a chicken sometimes,” Castiel says fondly as he watches the Impala shrinking in the distance. When he can’t see the car anymore, he goes inside.

Mrs. Gordecki comes about one hour later, bad-tempered and rude as always, but even her string of insults cannot possibly erase the smile that still plays on Castiel’s lips.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally works up the courage to take his relationship with Cas to a new level, and surprisingly, he feels just fine.

“So, Dean, when are you finally gonna settle down here with Steve?”

Choking a little on his beer, Dean waits until he’s sure his airways are clean before answering. “Why? You guys miss me that much when I’m gone?” A salve of laughter erupts around the table and Dean breathes out in relief, glad that he managed to brush off the question without having to give a serious answer.

Castiel comes back from the bar, placing a pitcher of beer on the table before sliding down into the seat next to Dean, casually draping one arm around Dean’s shoulders. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing important,” Dean says quickly, just to be sure. “We just found the answer to the meaning of life, discovered the perfect formula for world peace, that kind of stuff.”

For the briefest of moments, Castiel seems confused and even offended, as if Dean and the guys had no right to do such important things without his presence. But the corners of his lips are slowly rising until Cas smiles and rolls his eyes. “You would never be capable of doing something like that, Dean,” he says with perfectly faked condescending haughtiness. “Don’t even try, you could strain that single brain cell you have left.”

Lance the delivery guy whistles. “Wow, I’d never thought our sweet Steve had such a mouth on him!”

“Yeah, Steve,” Bruce – or was it Bud? – joins in on the fun. “Do you kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?”

Like always when his relationship with Cas is mentioned, Dean’s heart does a small somersault. But he’s getting used to those, even getting a thrill out of it now. He looks Bruce/Bud right in the eyes and deadpans, “You want a demonstration?” With that, he grabs Cas’s face with both hands and puckers his lips, slowly drawing near. The startled look in Cas’s eyes is absolutely priceless.

“God, stop that!” Lance sticks his arm between Dean and Castiel’s faces, waving it desperately and forcing them both to draw back. “I got nothing against you guys, but please don’t do that here!”

“Wasn’t really gonna,” Dean chuckles and pushes Lance's arm away. “You’d get a heart attack from the combined hotness of me and my man.”

“Yeah, right,” Bruce/Bud mutters and pours himself another beer. “You keep telling yourself that.”

“Don’t provoke him, Bert,” Castiel warns. “You might live to regret that.”

“Just chill, everybody,” Freddy, the third of Cas’s new friends at the Gas-N-Sip, interjects in his typical calm manner.

The conversation steers into a new direction after that, the three delivery guys talking a bit about their work and Dean with Cas mostly listening, which is perfectly fine by Dean because he’s got all he needs – there’s beer and tacos and _Cas_ by his side.

“For a moment I thought you were really going to kiss me,” Castiel whispers, lips brushing against Dean’s ear as he speaks.

Concentrating on anything but the effect Cas’s proximity has on him, Dean replies, “Nah, I was just taking the piss out of them. And you,” he admits truthfully after a thought.

“That’s not very nice.” There’s no way Cas isn’t aware of what his warm breath and soft lips so close to Dean’s skin are doing to him, Dean is sure of that. His suspicion is confirmed when he feels Cas’s hand under the table sliding up his thigh. “You should behave better.”

Heartbeat picking up, Dean closes his eyes momentarily before locking gazes with Cas challengingly. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really.”

The grip of Castiel’s hand tightens, bordering on painful now, but that’s okay, all okay, if only the hand moved just a _little more_ upwards and to the side... Dean catches himself before he can actually say something like that out loud, and he quickly straightens, swatting Cas’s hand away. Or trying to, anyway. “Cas, stop,” he hisses, his resolution to keep what is happening under the table private making it very hard (dammit, not that word!) … making it very _difficult_ for him to actually succeed in removing the offensive hand.

Cas, the cheeky bastard, just smirks at him smugly and waits another good ten seconds before finally letting go of Dean’s leg and grabbing his beer casually, as if nothing happened at all.

Since he’s suddenly very thirsty himself, Dean follows suit, draining half of the glass in several large gulps. When he looks at Cas again, the fallen angel is still grinning like an idiot.

It’s probably the hottest sight Dean’s ever seen – Cas is relaxed, leaning back in his seat casually, fingers of one hand wrapped around the beer glass and lazily drawing patterns into the beaded surface, his other hand splayed possessively between Dean's shoulder blades. He’s wearing jeans and a dark blue and black checkered shirt, the colors of the shirt bringing out the blue of his eyes and the black of his slightly messy black hair. And then, to top it all, there’s the confident, devilish smirk that says Cas is very much enjoying effect he’s having on Dean. He’s so pretty it’s ridiculous, he should be on the cover of some fashion magazine, not here with Dean.

“Hey, you two, stop the eyefucking already!”

That finally helps break the sparking, electrifying tension between them. Dean forces himself to tear his eyes away from Cas and joins the conversation. There’s talk about cars and women and sports, all of which he is well familiar with so he chimes in occasionally, although he still mostly holds back and just enjoys the night.

“It’s forty-two!” Freddy cries out suddenly, interrupting the discussion about the benefits and drawbacks of automatic and manual transmission. “That question’s already been answered and it’s forty-two!”

The exclamation is met with uncomprehending silence that lasts for a couple of seconds before Dean bursts out laughing as he realizes that this is in fact a very belated reaction to the conversation they had earlier. Apparently, Freddy does that a lot. “Yeah, you’re right,” he manages to choke out between fits of laughter.

“What are you talking about?” Lance asks with a puzzled and slightly agitated look.

“The answer to the meaning of life, the universe and everything,” Dean explains. “In _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_. Cool book.”

“Yeah, I saw the movie,” Bert remembers, his face lighting up. “Bilbo Baggins was in it!”

“You mean Watson?” Lance asks, and gets a nod in answer.

The only one who still seems confused is poor Cas, staring at Dean with wide blue eyes. “I don’t understand any of these references.”

Dean pats him on the shoulder indulgently, enjoying the rare occasion of having the upper hand, knowledge-wise. “You have much to learn, young Padawan.”

“I don’t understand that reference either.”

*

Dean sinks another ball without even breaking a sweat. This is almost too easy; the players here are no competition at all. If he was hustling tonight Dean would bleed the locals dry. And of course he wanted to, but Cas insisted that he didn’t, saying that they were here for fun, at which Dean objected that hustling pool _is_ fun to him, but then Cas gave Dean the puppy dog eyes and Dean relented.

Like this, all he can do is listen to the cheering from Cas and the guys and more importantly enjoy the hateful looks from the men he keeps beating. Which, admittedly, turns out to be lots of fun even without the bonus of taking their money.

Another stroke of the cue stick and the 8 ball ends up in the pocket. Dean straightens up and grins at the guy he’s playing against cheekily before taking a swig of the beer that Cas offers to him, their fingers brushing.

“Victory looks good on you,” Castiel whispers, leaning close, resting one hand on the center of Dean’s chest and pleasant warmth radiates from there through Dean’s whole body.

“Hey, what are you laughing at?” The guy that Dean just beat says loudly, suddenly standing too close to Dean, threat obvious in his posture. “You think this is funny?”

Smelling trouble – God, he’s missed this kind of trouble! –  Dean pushes Cas aside and squares his shoulders, meets the guy’s eyes. “Kinda, yeah.”

The guy glowers.

Dean holds his ground. “You got a problem?” Yeah, it’s a cliché, but it usually works.

And sure, the guy snorts, hands balling into fists at his sides. “Yeah, you.”

The guy’s friends, all big, burly men, stand up straighter too, forming a half-circle behind their leader. But Dean’s got friends, too, and he can hear their shuffling footsteps as they group together behind him.

He ignores them, ignores everyone but the douchebag in front of him. They are standing a couple of feet apart, both tense and ready to snap.

Cas tries to get involved, stepping between the two of them. “Maybe we should go,” he says placatingly, directing his words at Dean but looking at the guy.

“Stay out of this, pretty boy,” the douchebag growls, never taking his eyes off Dean, obviously not considering Cas a threat at all, which only serves to make Dean’s blood boil harder.

He sidesteps Cas, placing himself between him and the guy, which puts him well into the guy’s personal space. Dean’s taller than him, but the douche is bulkier, the beefy type who spends all his free time in the gym dedicating his energy to looking like a bulldozer and probably wears sunglasses at night. He won’t stand a chance.

The guy’s buddies come closer, flanking his sides.

They still won’t stand a chance, but at least now the fight will be more even, will last longer, if they actually attack. And Dean finds himself hoping they will, realizing that he’s been spoiling for a fight like this for weeks. Things have been tense with Sam lately, the amount of lies Dean has had to say quickly becoming unbearable, and with the whole angels and demons situation on top of that, Dean could really use to let off some steam.

The truth is, Dean misses the simple brawls, body against body, skill against skill, no demonic or angelic superpowers holding you pressed against a wall. The knock-down, drag-out fights like this are pure and exhilarating, simple and uncomplicated, easy. Fun.

But then the guy backs away, dropping his gaze to the floor and mumbling something awkwardly before walking away and out of the bar, closely followed by the rest of his pack. They all leave with their tails between their legs.

Dean turns to his own bunch. “What the hell?”

“No wonder they took off like that. Dude, you were totally scary,” Lance gasps out dazedly as they go back to their booth and the silence that reigned in the bar is gradually filled with conversations again. “Like, spine-chilling scary.”

Dean looks at Cas for confirmation. “Really? Nah, I wasn’t. Was I?”

Cas just nods, eyeing him disapprovingly. Lance and Bert can’t decide whether to be impressed or upset and Freddy seems completely unfazed. The guy is absolutely hilarious, and the best thing is that he hasn’t even been drinking; he’s only been sipping soda the whole night. Apparently he’s just always like this, kinda naturally stoned without even having to take anything. Dean decides he really likes him.

“Did we just almost get into a bar fight?” Freddy asks about five minutes later.

“Yeah, almost,” Dean agrees, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice and earning another disapproving look from Cas. He shrugs defiantly. “What? It’s not like I started it.”

Cas sighs. “You did nothing to prevent it, either. Dean, please do not get into fights in places that I like. I’d like to be able to keep coming here, you know.”

Oh. That’s sound. Dean also likes this bar, it’s the one that reminds him of the Roadhouse, and only now does he remember the owner and head waitress, the Ellen-esque chick, and throws a quick worried glance in her direction. She’s watching him cautiously, like she’s expecting him to cause more trouble, which is totally unfair. He sends her a slightly forced yet hopefully charming smile, hoping to appease her, and thankfully it works, she smiles back, wagging a finger at him in mock threat.

“Yeah, she’d totally whop your ass,” Bert chuckles, following the exchange closely.

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but then closes it again, which serves to amuse the whole table immensely. “From _totally scary_ to source of amusement in a couple of minutes,” he mutters in a huff and Cas ruffles his hair, thus crushing the last remnants of his dignity.

*

Dean and Cas say goodbye to the guys sometime after midnight, watching them drive off in Freddy’s old truck.

They start walking in the direction of Cas’s place, the cool night air pleasantly refreshing.

“You’ve got good friends,” Dean says and slips his hand into Cas’s as they go.

“Yes I do,” Cas agrees with a small smile. “I’m not sure it was a good idea to introduce them to you, though. You could prove to be a bad influence.”

Chuckling, Dean grabs Cas by the shoulders and spins him around, drawing him closer and pressing against his smaller body from behind. Cas shivers, from the cold of from Dean’s proximity, Dean can’t tell. “So I’m the bad boy in this story, yeah?”

Cas chuckles, the low, rumbling sound resonating in his body, and turns around in Dean’s arms so they’re face to face, looking up at him with strange calmness. “Don’t be so sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The hands that were resting on his chest move, sliding under Dean’s arms and downwards until they are covering Dean’s ass. “This,” Cas says, squeezing.

Dean’s heart skips a beat. “Tonight?” And if his voice is trembling a little, it’s from the cold, nothing else.

“You said you were ready.”

“Yeah, but…”

“We don’t have to,” Cas sounds understanding, soothing, like he’s comforting a child. Which Dean is not. At all. Cas’s words just took him by surprise a little, that’s all.

“I know we don’t have to,” he makes himself say, watching Cas’s face closely and keeping his own open. “But I want to.”

“Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, Dean bends down to capture Cas’s lips in a short yet fiery kiss.

They start walking again, Dean setting up a brisk pace and practically dragging Cas along with him, leading the way. Butterflies the size of bats are fluttering around in his stomach and he’s slightly more out of breath than he should be, but that’s okay, that’s just the anticipation of something that’s bound to be epic. And how exactly does he know it’s going to be epic? Because it’s going to be with Cas. Sometimes things are really that simple.

*

Once they get undressed and get on the bed, Dean keeps his eyes closed and concentrates on the sensation of Castiel’s mouth and hands on him, travelling across Dean’s body, the touches torturously teasing, building up arousal inside Dean with just a flick here, just a caress there, a drag of nail against skin, a wet trail left by tongue, a red patch raised by teeth.

Cas is really good at this.

Time seems to float, or maybe stop altogether, brought to a standstill, reality fading away, leaving only need. “Cas, stop teasing and just do it already,” Dean says hoarsely, proud of the sentence’s coherence. “Come on,” he adds when his plea is ignored, opens his eyes so he can look at Cas, show him how much he means it.

“As you wish.” Cas leans over Dean as he reaches for the nightstand drawer and Dean lifts himself up a little so he can lick a strip of skin on Cas's chest that appears above him, tasting the salty sweat there and eliciting a moan from his lover.

Leaning back again, settling himself between Dean’s open legs, Cas uncaps the tube of lube and squirts some of the substance into his palm, rubbing it between his hands. He is doing it to warm the gel up, Dean knows that, just like he knows what will come next, how the whole process is supposed to go, because he’s already been through this quite a few times with Cas. Just… never on the receiving end.

His heartbeat picks up again and Dean squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to take slow, deep breaths because he needs to calm down, he can’t freak out now. He can’t stand the waiting, the suspense. “Come on already, put it in me,” he almost growls, and it sounds more impatient than eager.

“I’d like that,” there’s a hint of amusement in Cas’s voice, “but you’re currently making it impossible.”

“Huh?” Dean opens his eyes and looks down his body to see what the hell’s Cas talking about and discovers that he’s pressing his legs together, effectively cutting Cas off. “Sorry,” he mutters, feeling embarrassed, and relaxes his muscles, allows Cas to pull his legs apart.

Cas doesn’t move immediately, just watches Dean with that contemplative, slightly dubious expression that says he’s reconsidering whether this is a good idea, probably just about to ask Dean whether he’s really sure. But when he notices Dean glaring at him, willing him to just get on with it already, he shrugs and moves, settling himself better between Dean’s legs, shoulders holding them open.

“Touch yourself,” Cas orders, and Dean, who wasn’t really sure what to do with his hands, grateful for the distraction, wraps one hand around his slightly wilting erection and starts stroking it back to fullness.

“That’s it,” comes the praise, “just like that,” and just as Dean is starting to get lost in the pleasure again, there’s slick and pressure and Cas’s finger slips inside him, taking him by surprise, not giving him the time to fight the intrusion.

“What–?”

“Ssh, easy.” The finger is pulled almost all the way out, then back in again, and it doesn’t really hurt, but it doesn’t feel good either, it’s just _there_. Nothing much to say about it. Until Cas does something, curls the finger, brushing against a spot that has Dean bucking off the bed wildly with a gasp.

“Do that again.”

With a smug smile, Cas does, the smile growing wider and dirtier at Dean’s vocal and positive reaction. “I told you it would feel good.”

Emboldened by that smile and by intense pleasure rising inside him, Dean hears himself say, “I want more.”

The second finger doesn’t go in as smoothly, the sensation now definitely more on the side of weird than good. Dean’s eyes slide down, between Cas’s legs, where his cock stands thick and erect, definitely much bigger than Cas’s fingers. He’s beginning to doubt that this is even doable.

“You’re tensing,” Castiel observes reproachfully. “You have to relax, Dean.”

“Not sure I can,” the admission doesn’t come easy.

“Of course you can,” the reply comes immediately, assuring and positive, lending confidence to Dean. “Just close your eyes and breathe. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Obeying that command isn’t as easy for Dean as it might seem, his whole life he’s been trained to keep his eyes open, to remain watchful in strange, new situations, and he’ll be damned if this isn’t a situation that’s both strange and new to him. But it’s Cas, and he trusts Cas, trusts him to know what he’s doing – well, he definitely knows that better than Dean, anyway – and so he lets out a nervous, shaky laugh and lets his eyes fall closed.

“Good, you’re doing very good,” Castiel’s rough voice washes over Dean like warm rays of summer sunlight so Dean focuses on it, lets it guide him through this. “Just listen to me, let me in.”

The two fingers inside Dean start moving again, stretching him, slow and careful but persistent, until Dean yields and Cas rewards him with his lips on Dean’s cock, and through the new wave of pleasure, it actually takes Dean some time to notice that somehow along the way two fingers became three.

With a wet slurp, Cas pulls off Dean’s cock and the loss makes Dean open his eyes, searching for what’s wrong.

“I think you’re ready,” Cas tells him and slowly pulls out his fingers, wiping them on the bedsheet. He leans over Dean to reach for the nightstand again, this time for a condom, and before he draws back, he kisses Dean briefly.

Again, Dean’s heart starts hammering in his chest like crazy, and this time he doesn’t think there’s anything he can do to calm down, because suddenly the severity of the situation really hits him. They’re going to do this, he’s going to let Cas fuck him, let Cas put his cock into his ass – and he _wants_ _it_.

The sight of Cas tearing the wrapper open with his teeth and then putting the condom on, slathering his cock with lube, should probably be at least a little scary, intimidating, but all Dean can feel is arousal so strong that he finds himself spreading his legs wider and rasping, “Cas, please,” tugging at him and trying to bring him closer, urging him to slide inside him already.

And Cas does, pressing the head of his cock inside.

It’s completely different than the fingers were, blunt and wide and the discomfort is back, bordering on pain but Dean can’t bring himself to care, driven by the vision of having Cas in him and above him, and starts pushing back against the intrusion, attempting to take Cas in as fast as possible.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” Cas stops moving and places one palm on Dean’s pelvis, pushing him back down into the mattress. “Stay still and let me do this. We’re going slow.”

Dean wants to protest that he doesn’t want slow, that he can handle a little pain, but the look Cas is giving him clearly signals that this is not up for discussion.

Cas is incredibly careful, and by the time he’s fully buried inside Dean, the pain has ebbed away completely. The sense of fullness is incredible, unlike anything Dean’s ever felt before, and when Cas finally starts moving, angling his thrusts to brush against Dean’s prostate on every other stroke, sparks burst behind his eyes and he lets out a surprised half-groan, half-scream. He doesn’t feel it just in his ass or in his cock, it’s like there’s this liquid heat shooting from his core into every direction, down to his curled toes, up to pool into his stomach and scratch at his throat.

Cas is watching him with an expression of amazement and wonder as he keeps moving, snapping his hips faster now than before, as if he can’t control himself as well as he did at the beginning, as if being inside Dean is making him as wild as Dean himself. “You have no idea how beautiful you are,” he says on a breath.

Shaking his head, Dean wants to say that it is Castiel who is beautiful. Magnificent. Powerful, graceful, lithe, impossible. Dean could stay like this forever, watching his angel with flushed cheeks and wide sky-blue eyes. He wants to tell him but all that comes out is a broken, “Cas…”

“And we haven’t even started yet.” Bending down, Cas zeroes in on Dean’s left nipple, licking at the small bud with the pointed tip of his tongue before taking it between his teeth and biting down gently.

“Fuck!” Dean squirms, back arching off the bed before slumping back down.

With a low chuckle, Cas moves to the other nipple to give it the same treatment. Dean’s always been very sensitive like that, something that used to confuse him when he was younger – men don’t have sensitive nipples, that’s just for the girls, right? – and so he always used to ignore it. But Cassie and Lisa knew, and now Cas knows too and Dean isn’t so sure that’s a good thing because it’s slowly driving him out of his mind.

It’s getting too much, Dean is going into overload. Cas’s cock in his ass, his hand jacking him off in rhythm with his thrusts, his mouth sucking and nipping at his nipples, it’s all just too intense, robbing Dean of the ability to do anything but lie there and take it, completely helpless and at Cas’s mercy, and that’s something Dean doesn’t do, _never_ , because he never allows himself to let go completely. He has to stop this, push Cas away or ask him to stop, gain at least some of his self-control back.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he blindly grabs onto the headboard and closes his eyes, lets Cas take over completely.

Everything that follows is blurred and hazy, flashes of consciousness in a surging sea of pleasure too vast to be grasped. Dean remembers wrapping his legs around Cas’s slender waist, he remembers Cas’s tongue plundering his mouth, he remembers screaming and Cas covering his mouth with a palm to muffle the sounds.

The next thing he knows is Cas sitting at the edge of the bed, running a warm, wet washcloth across Dean’s body, washing away the sweat and fatigue. He feels mellow and boneless, but in a pleasant way.

“Cas? Wha’ppen’d?” His voice is cracked, hoarse, and speaking really hurts his throat. He thinks he probably shouldn’t try that again soon. Also, thinking hurts his head.

Castiel gives him a reassuring smile and plants a soft kiss on Dean’s forehead. “I believe you became fully absorbed in the experience of our lovemaking.” He resumes washing Dean’s body, periodically rinsing the cloth in a bowl of water standing on the floor by the bed. It feels nice, being taken care of, so Dean just lets it happen, watches Cas with heavy-lidded eyes as the world floats around him.

“Here, eat this.” Something is poking his lip and Dean dutifully opens his mouth and tastes chocolate. He lets it melt on his tongue, vaguely aware of Cas moving around the room. Sometime later, a hand slides under the back of his head, urging Dean to lift it, and an uncapped bottle is nudging at his mouth. He drinks some water and then lets his head fall back onto the pillow.

The lamp on the nightstand is turned off and Castiel snuggles up to Dean, throwing one arm over his chest before covering them both with a blanket. “Sleep, Dean,” he says, and Dean does.

*

Dean wakes up early, feeling unusually rested. Turning his head on the pillow, he sees that Cas is still fast asleep and decides not to wake him yet. He carefully climbs over him and gets out of bed, grabs some fresh underwear from his duffel and pads over to the bathroom.

Leaning his hands on the sink, he examines himself in the small mirror, looking for signs of change, something in his face that would say _I’ve taken it up the ass and liked it_. But he doesn’t seem any different; he feels exactly the same as before.

Or maybe not exactly the same. He feels better, actually he feels so good that he smiles at his own reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t think he’s done that since he’s been a kid and it’s kind of silly, so he sticks out his tongue at himself, which calls for raised eyebrows and creased forehead.

“What are you doing?”

Dean jumps, glaring at Castiel who’s standing in the doorway, naked and casually gorgeous. “Nothing.”

Cas doesn’t seem to buy it, but he doesn’t comment on it either. “How do you feel?”

Dean starts the shower running and steps inside the stall. “Good. Kinda sore down there.”

Castiel’s face falls. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was awesome.” Dean steps outside and grabs Cas by his arm, pushes him inside and under the warm spray of water. “In fact, it was so awesome that I’m gonna do the whole clichéd morning after breakfast. So you just stay here, take your time and let me take care of stuff.”

“Okay,” Cas says, the confused tilt of his head making him look more like the old angel Cas and less like the new, sex guru Cas who fucked Dean’s brains out.

Dean gets dressed quickly and closes the bathroom door behind him, whistling as the starts preparing the batter for pancakes in the kitchenette.

*

They hang around for most of morning, too lazy to do anything but make out on the bed like a couple of horny teenagers, which leads to another round of sex, just as fantastic as the first one. Dean thinks he could really get used to bottoming.

That of course doesn’t prevent him from complaining that he’s going to walk bowlegged for days, at which Cas innocently remarks “Even more than usually?”

Once they recuperate, they stop at a local Chinese restaurant for noodles and then head out to the Yellowstone Bear World because Cas keeps insisting that they can’t stay in the apartment the whole day.

It turns out that moose truly share many traits with Sam. Above all, they’re freakishly huge.

*

“We should go to sleep, you have to leave early tomorrow,” Cas tries to swat away the hand that is sneaking down his chest, but Dean doesn’t let that discourage him and continues the journey. He replaces the hand with his mouth, catching Cas’s wrists in his hands instead and holding them down so Cas can’t pose any more resistance.

“Just let me do this,” he says before going back to tracing the hard muscles in Cas’s abdomen, reveling in the way they twitch and ripple under his tongue. “I wanna do it.”

Cas sighs. “I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

“Nope.” Dean is getting closer to his target now, following the trail of dark hair leading from Cas’s navel downwards. “And stop acting like you don’t want it too. Cause _this,_ ” he runs his tongue over the hot, velvety head of Cas’s cock, “tells me otherwise.”

Castiel’s hips jerk upwards and he lets out a moan when Dean wraps his lips around him and sucks. “From what I’ve – ah, yes – from what I’ve learned, these things have a mind of their own,” he stutters.

Dean lets the cock slip out of his mouth so he can look up. “Cas, how about you just shut up, lie back and enjoy it while you can, okay?”

Cas makes a show of mulling over the question before he nods. “Okay.”

“Good boy.” Dean grins, lets go of Cas’s wrists and goes back to his task. He slides further down the bed to gain better access to Cas’s balls, draws one into his mouth, then the other, all the while slowly jacking him off.

The body under him is tense and restless, and when Dean goes back to lick the salty precome that dribbles from Cas’s slit, the fallen angel starts cursing under his breath, obscenities falling from his bitten lips like rain of fire that lights up desire inside Dean.

Dean locks his lips around the straining erection and rubs his tongue against the sensitive underside before taking Cas deeper, as deep as he can without choking or gagging. And he’s getting better at it, too, able to take more each time he does it.

He loves hearing Cas like this, seeing him like this, wild and debauched and forgetting himself, thrusting up into Dean’s willing mouth with abandon, fingers twisting and puling at his hair.

And yeah, he loves the taste of Cas’s release on his tongue. Just the knowledge that it was him who did this to Cas is almost enough, and a couple of rough, hard pulls on his own cock later Dean is coming too.

“I think I’ll sleep now,” Dean doesn’t feel like moving much so he just rests his head on Cas’s stomach, but he’s not allowed to stay there for long, Cas pushes and prods at him until he relents and rolls off him, lying next to him.

Cas is on his side, facing Dean, smiling at him fondly and Dean finds the energy to move again, leaning in for a tender, languid, playful kiss that isn’t meant to ignite arousal, only to convey love.

“A couple more weeks and we’ll be doing this in my room at the bunker,” Dean says, captivated by the affection he sees in Castiel’s beautiful eyes.

“Of course, it won’t be your room then, it will be _our_ room.”

“What does that mean?”

“Redecoration.”

Suddenly not sleepy at all, Dean sits up, taken aback, and stares down at his lover in shock. “You’re not serious.”

“Deadly.” Cas doesn’t move, and he still has that peaceful, calm expression, as if they weren’t discussing life changing matters right now. “Those weapons you have displayed on the walls… it’s a little maniacal.”

“Maybe, but it’s me,” Dean opposes. “I like them. They’re my friends.” Okay, so maybe that sounds a bit maniacal even to his own ears. He tries to fix it, not very successfully, by adding, “They hold some very good memories for me.”

Castiel’s body is shaking with laughter, eyes swimming with tears. “Please stop talking, you’re only making it worse.”

“Only if you promise not to make me get rid of my weapons.”

“Alright, alright, I promise,” Cas gives up and tugs at Dean’s arm, making him lie back down so he can rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. “Happy now?”

“Yeah, Cas. Happy.”

***

Two days later, when Dean and Sam are investigating a string of murders in the woods of Tennessee, Dean is still a little sore, every sudden or unusual movement reminding him of Cas. It doesn’t really hurt, it’s just this feeling of knowing Cas was there, and that? Is pretty awesome.

Sam catches him smiling and frowns suspiciously. “What are you smiling at?”

For a second Dean considers telling him because the look on Sam’s face would be absolutely priceless. But it’s not time yet, and so he just shrugs it off.

Then he starts thinking about the best way of telling Sam that him and Cas are together when the time comes. Maybe they could just start making out in front of him, crawl all over each other, give him a show. If only Dean could persuade Cas to do it, it would be hilarious.

He gets a cuff on the head. “Dean, stop grinning like a fool, we’re supposed to be two respectable FBI agents, remember?”

“Yeah, sorry, Sammy.”

Only a few more weeks, Dean thinks contentedly, and we’re gonna be _three_ agents instead of two.

Which poses a question: who’s going to ride shotgun and who’s going to sit in the back? It’s a very complicated dilemma though; one that deserves Dean’s undivided attention, so he saves it for later and for now concentrates on the case.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long-kept secrets come to light and just as Dean feared, it doesn't go well for either of the affected.

“– so what do you think, Steve? Steve! Steve, are you alright?”

Castiel looks up from the shelf of Cheetos he’s just been restocking and he sees Nora standing above him, hands resting on her hips and a worried frown on her face. “Yes?”

Her frown deepens. “Steve, I’ve been talking to you for the past few minutes, did you hear _anything_ I said to you?”

Castiel grimaces guiltily and scratches the top of his head, looks down at the floor. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little distracted lately.”

“A little.” He doesn’t have to look up to know that she’s being ironic, he’s learned to recognize that tone perfectly from Dean.

A rustle of skirts and then Nora is squatting next to him, they’re on the same eye level now and he can’t avoid her searching gaze anymore. “Steve, is something wrong? You know you can tell me, right?”

He wishes he could tell her, this has been weighing on him for days. Then he realizes there’s no reason for him not to tell her, Nora’s proven many times that she really is his friend. So he sighs and says, “You remember Dean?”

“Your boyfriend? Of course, how could I forget someone like him?” She’s smiling, but when his expression remains serious, her smile fades. “Did something happen to him?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, his voice breaking. Maybe he shouldn’t have started talking after all, now he’s making this all too real. But he can’t stop speaking now that he’s already started, he has to unload his troubles or he’ll explode. Or implode. “He hasn’t called me in over two days, he’s not returning my calls either, I just…” He pauses and takes several deep breaths, notices that Nora’s hand is gently, supportively squeezing his arm. “He could be in real danger and I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, Steve,” Nora kneels on the floor, obviously not caring that she’s getting her skirt dirty, and draws Castiel into a warm, comforting embrace that he doesn’t have the strength to fight. She’s soft and smells like vanilla perfume and she doesn’t say anything, just holds him, rubs soothing circles into his back, and Castiel briefly wonders whether this is what it feels like to have a mother. He’ll never know.

Several minutes later, he regains some of his composure and straightens up, drawing back.

Nora is watching him with sad, compassionate eyes. “Isn’t there anyone else you could call? His other friends, family…”

He shakes his head defeatedly. “They must’ve changed their numbers, I can’t reach any of them.” He looks at her, takes another deep breath. “That’s why I’ve decided. If I don’t hear from him in the next twelve hours, I’m going to go look for him.”

The widening of Nora’s eyes tells him she understands perfectly what he means, that he’s decided to leave Rexford, the store, everything, to go find his lover. He expects her to protest, to try to talk him out of it, bus all she does is nod and squeeze his shoulder. “Okay, Steve, I can give you a couple of days off. But if you really have to go… promise me we’ll keep in touch.”

He hugs her and whispers words of thanks into the crook of her neck.

*

His phone starts ringing when he’s locking the store that night. He’s so impatient, so hopeful that he doesn’t even check the caller ID, just answers the phone. “Dean?”

“Close, but no.”

Castiel frowns. “Sam?”

“Yeah. Uh, hey, Cas.” Sam sounds distant, reserved, closed off.

“Did something happen to Dean?” The words are blurted out quickly, carried by too much worry.

There’s a curt, cheerless laugh. “No, I’m sure he’s okay. Well, considering I kicked him out of the bunker and refused to speak with him again.”

His shaky legs can’t support him anymore, Castiel sinks onto a bench outside the store heavily. He thinks he knows what this is about.

Sam’s next words confirm his suspicion. “He told me about the angel inside me.”

“And?” Castiel asks when Sam doesn’t seem particularly willing to elaborate.

“And I kicked Ezekiel out, punched Dean in the face and told him to get lost.” Sam laughs again, and it’s an ugly sound, it carries the ominousness of a blade being drawn in a dark, empty alley. “And he did, left without having to be told twice. Just packed his bags and went. That was two days ago.”

There are many question marks spinning around Castiel’s head, but there’s no contest which one he’s going to ask first. “So… have you heard from him ever since?”

“What part of _refused to speak with him again_ did you not understand, Cas? Did losing your Grace make you mentally disabled?”

Those bitter, caustic word send Castiel reeling. Sam is never like this, he’s never mean, and this is a bigger shock than it should be. “I…” He shakes his head, tries to gather his thoughts. “Why did you call me, Sam?”

There’s a sigh at the other end of the line, weary, drained. “Because even if I don’t want to see his crooked face ever again I still need to know the deceiving fucker is alright. I don’t want him doing anything stupid.” A pause, then, “I was kinda counting on him going straight to you, lick his wounds somewhere he knows he’ll always be accepted and welcome, loved no matter what he does.”

Castiel pales, breaks out into a cold sweat. “You mean–“

“I mean when he came clean about Ezekiel, I asked how many other secrets he’s been keeping from me. So he came clean about everything else, too. I know about you two.”

“Oh.” This wasn’t how Castiel imagined Sam would learn about them; when him and Dean talked about it, they always envisioned it happening after a successful hunt, or at night under the stars when they’d be sitting on the Impala’s hood and drinking beer, or… well, the circumstances weren’t that important, but what mattered was that they’d hoped it would be a happy moment. Not like this.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long stretch of silence at Sam’s end and Castiel realizes Sam might not even be there anymore. “Sam?”

“Still here.”

Deciding to voice his fear, Castiel says, “So if he’s not with you and he’s not with me… where is he?”

“Well, he’s not answering my phone, but Kevin tracked his signal. He’s still in Kansas, not really that far from Lebanon, and he hasn’t moved in the past two days.”

“He’s not answering my calls either,” Castiel ventures.

“Try texting him again, tell him we’re all worried about him, even me. He might respond to that.”

Castiel wants to point out that Sam might just text Dean himself, but he doesn’t want to risk having more of Sam’s wrath brought upon him. “And if he responds?”

“I don’t know, okay?” Sam shouts and Castiel flinches as the loud sound hurts his ear. “Look, I don’t even wanna think about him right now, I hate it that I still worry about him despite what he’s done. Just… take care of him, he’s your boyfriend after all.”

“I’ll… try.”

“Let me know if you hear from him.” And then, without any word of thanks or goodbye, Sam hangs up.

*

Two hours, fifteen unanswered calls and twenty-two sent text messages later, Castiel’s phone vibrates as a new text message is received.

It’s from Dean’s number and it simply says: _Not gonna kill myself or anything, so you don’t have to worry._

 _Of course I have to worry, this must be terribly difficult for you_ , Castiel sends back.

He gets no response.

 _Dean, please, don’t punish yourself like that_ , he writes. _You’re not only hurting yourself, you’re hurting me too, and you’re hurting Sam._

Still no response.

“Stupid stubborn son of a bitch,” Castiel mutters as he types, _Come to Idaho, stay with me until things between you and Sam get better._

 _Want to be alone_ , comes back.

Castiel sighs, this is so frustrating. _I’m not giving you an option here. If you don’t come here I’ll quit my job, leave my safe life behind and I’ll go find you_. He’s dramatizing it a bit, but he figures it might only help. If he can’t persuade Dean to come here any other way, he’ll guilt him into it, no problem.

 _Believe me, you don’t wanna be around me right now_.

That’s probably true, Castiel has been around Dean long enough to know that when Dean gets into one of his pissy moods, or worse, into a depressed one, it’s just better and safer to get out of his way and wait it out somewhere well out of his reach. But still… _I will NOT let you be alone._

There is no response.

Then, just when Castiel starts to get worried that he forced this too far, his phone vibrates again. _Okay. Will set out tomorrow when I sober up, I’m in no condition to drive right now._

Castiel breathes out in relief, incredibly thankful that Dean obviously still has some self-preservation in him left. _Thank you._

Dean doesn’t reply.

*

Castiel calls Nora first, informs her that the situation with Dean has been resolved (which might just be the overstatement of the century, but he wants to say it, wants to believe it) and so he doesn’t have to take any days off. He figures even if Dean hit the road early in the morning, he still wouldn’t make Rexford before midnight, which means Castiel can go to work tomorrow.

Nora sounds relieved and Castiel can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “I knew your man would be alright.”

Luckily she can’t see him, so he doesn’t have to fake a smile. He just wishes he had her faith.

*

Later, after he fixes himself a quick dinner, he calls Sam.

Sam answers almost immediately, as if he’s been sitting by the phone, waiting. “You talked to him?”

“We texted.”

“And?” Impatience and annoyance, not a very pleasant combination. Castiel finds the time to think about poor Kevin, having to stay with Sam in the bunker.

“He agreed to come here, stay with me until you take him back.”

A curt, nasty laugh. “What makes you so sure I’ll ever do that?”

“Because no matter how much you hurt each other, you’re still brothers and you still love each other.”

Another bitter laugh. “Well, isn’t that just _nice_. Cas the peacemaker.”

Castiel really doesn’t like Sam’s tone, it’s acid and accusatory, but Castiel doesn’t feel like apologizing for anything to Sam. He hasn’t done anything wrong, nothing to deserve the way Sam treats him… He takes a deep breath, forces his emotions to quiet down, and resolves to be patient and understanding because what Sam is going through must be very bad. And yes, that’s another understatement of the year.

“I’m not sure I can forgive him this time.” Sam’s voice gains on angry intensity again. “He really fucked up big time.”

“Sam–“

“Don’t! Don’t try to excuse him! Don’t you dare!”

Castiel practically shrivels under the concentrated cold rage sent his way. It reminds him of Lucifer in Sam’s skin, and for once he’s truly glad there are thousands of miles between him and Sam. “I wasn’t going to justify his actions,” he says once he finds the courage to speak. “That’s between the two of you.

“Right. The two of us.” A hint of sadness creeps into Sam’s voice. “Sam and Dean, the inseparable duo, like Butch and Sundance, or Bonnie and Clyde, or heck, Thelma and Louise, whatever. But you know what happens to them, Cas?”

Frowning as he has absolutely no clue as to what Sam is talking about, Castiel admits, “No, I don’t.”

“They die, Cas! And once they’re dead, they _don’t come back_.”

Still completely lost, Castiel doesn’t say anything, hoping that the situation will be made clearer if he just lets Sam talk. He wishes Dean was here with him now and clue him in on all the mysterious references.

There’s silence at Sam’s end of the line though, long and eerie, and when it’s finally broken, it’s by a sob.

“Sam?”

“Just… how could he do that to me?” The words are shaky, small, like Sam’s trying hard not to start crying. “Why, how? What the Hell was he thinking?”

Recalling the conversation he had with a feverish Dean a couple of weeks ago, Castiel replies, “I believe he wasn’t thinking at all, Sam. He was scared out of his mind, grasping at straws, desperate.”

“I know, and I get that,” all traces of anger are gone from Sam’s voice,  completely replaced by misery, which is so much worse, so much more difficult to listen to. It hurts Castiel to hear his friend in such pain, knowing that there’s probably nothing he can do to at least alleviate it. “I know he was just trying to help, but… Where is this gonna end, Cas? When I get into trouble again and he sells his soul for me? Makes another deal with the devil, or Death, or whoever gives the best offer?”

All these questions have crossed Castiel’s mind, too, and he has no good, happy answer.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Sam says. He sounds so tired.

Castiel wishes he could help. “Sam? If there’s anything I can do…”

A weary sigh. “No, Cas. I have to get through this alone, think it over. It’s gonna take time.”

“I understand.”

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

Sam huffs and Castiel can almost see him shaking his head. “You know how Dean has all these rules? What is dead should stay dead, you don’t make deals with the bad guys, you sacrifice one life to save more lives… You notice how he always breaks those rules when it comes to me?”

“I’ve noticed, yes.”

“How am I supposed to live like that? Knowing that every damn time something happens to me, he’s ready to do anything to make sure I get better? It’s like every time I might step on a mine, he’s there to throw me off it and take the blow for me. Do you know what it’s like, Cas? Do you?”

One very tiny, imperceptible, selfish part of Castiel actually almost wishes the answer was yes. But still, when he says “No, I don’t,” he says it with gratitude. He doesn’t envy Sam his situation, his role of Dean’s self-destruct button. He would never want that, not for himself, not for anybody.

“God, Cas, I’m sorry,” Sam cries out suddenly, apologetic. “I’m such an asshole sometimes.”

“Sorry for what?” Castiel is confused.

“I just practically asked you if you know he doesn’t love you as much as he loves me.”

“No, you didn’t,” he objects, surprised that Sam would even think that. Such thought has never crossed his mind. “There are more kinds of love, Sam. The one Dean feels for you is fiercely passionate, even dangerous and destructive at times–”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“And I'm lucky enough to know that’s not the way he feels about me, I don't have to carry that burden,” Castiel finishes calmly. “Although I know he would die for me, and he nearly did, all those times in Purgatory when he was looking for me instead of trying to get out.”

“I thought you were together the whole time,” Sam interrupts him and only now does it dawn on Castiel that of course, Dean being Dean, he probably never really told his brother what happened down there.

“No, we weren’t,” he starts explaining and suddenly realizes what he’s doing – he’s having a normal, civil conversation with Sam, no more anger or blame or despair. They’re just talking, like friends do, and that’s a good thing, it means there’s hope. So he just keeps on talking, how many months have passed before Dean and Benny found him, how many Leviathans they had to evade, how many attacked them, how many times he’d asked Dean to just let him go and Dean said no.

“Wow,” Sam says when the story is finished. “That’s epic. So… back then, did you already… y’know?”

Castiel is already familiar enough with the way humans get embarrassed when it comes to talking about sex to understand what Sam is trying to hint at. “No, our relationship only deepened about two months ago.”

“So that’s where he was going! That’s what he always couldn’t wait for the weekends and always came back from his mysterious trips looking happy and relaxed!”

“He did?” It brings a smile to Castiel’s lips, knowing that it was him who was responsible for Dean’s happiness.

“Yeah. Actually, I and Kevin thought he was seeing some girl,” Sam admits tentatively, as if unsure of Castiel’s reaction. “And he never said a word.”

“He couldn’t, there was no way….” He trails off, cursing himself inwardly for leading the conversation back into dangerous territory.

“There was no way he could explain why he didn’t take you back to the bunker without making me suspicious of Ezekiel,” Sam sounds distant again, as if the light, friendly talk they were having just moments before never happened.

“He hated it, having to lie to you, having to wait until Ezekiel healed you enough.”

“Yeah, and how did he even know he could trust the guy?” The tone is accusing.

“I told him,” Castiel confesses, waiting for some sort of admonishment.

It doesn’t come, but the anger is back in Sam’s voice. “So you knew about this? The whole time, from the beginning?”

“No, I didn’t! Not until about a month ago. Dean didn’t tell me earlier, not even when he told me I had to leave the bunker.”

“What?” And just like that, the anger recedes. Sam's mood really swings from one extreme to another today. “So he basically just kicked you out without giving you a reason? Fuck, you must hate me.”

Again, Castiel is completely lost. “Why would I?”

“Cas, he kicked you out because of me, lied to you because of me. And lied to _me_ too, of course, practically he lied to everybody... He must’ve felt terrible about it.”

“He did.” Castiel considers pushing it a bit since he’s sure he detected a note of sympathy in Sam’s voice. “Maybe you two should just talk about it, you know.”

Sam sighs, long and heavy. “Probably, yeah. But I just can’t, Cas. Not now. I know he’s hurting, but I’m hurting too, you know, and I just… I need more time.”

Castiel nods, then remembers Sam can’t see him. “I understand.”

“Will you… will you look after him, please?” That’s real concern, concern for Dean, open and unconcealed, and that’s a big victory. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything reckless or stupid.”

“I’ll try.” Dean would probably kill them both if he knew they were talking about him like this, like he needed being taken care of. “Sam, can I tell him there’s hope?”

Silence.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, okay, but don’t make him _too_ hopeful, alright? What he did was unacceptable and I don’t want him thinking I’m ever going to forgive him for that.”

“Understood.”

“Oh, poor Cas.”

“What?”

Sam chuckles, and it’s not exactly a happy sound, but it doesn’t sound desperate and broken either, so that’s a start. “You do realize he’s going to be really crappy company, right?”

“I am prepared for that.”

“Okay.” There’s a long pause. “Uh, thanks. For, y’know, listening.”

“Anytime,” Castiel assures Sam and he means it. “I’ve missed talking to you, Sam. You’re my friend.”

“Thanks, Cas. And, uh, you too. Are my friend, I mean.”

“Good.”

“I should probably hang up, let you get some sleep. You’re gonna need all the energy in the world to deal with Dean when he gets there.”

“That’s most likely correct,” Castiel agrees. The following days (weeks? hopefully not months) are going to be very difficult and exhausting for all of them.

“Goodnight, Cas,” Sam tells him. “And thanks again.”

“Goodnight,” Castiel replies, ends the call, and prepares to go to bed.

Emotionally drained as he is, he falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

*

He goes through the next day’s work on autopilot, does everything he’s required to do, smiles when smiled at, says “Hello” and “Goodbye”, but underneath the calm façade he maintains, he’s a churning ball of nerves.

When he comes home, it’s still too early for Dean to arrive, there's no way he'll get here before midnight.

High-strung and restive, unable to concentrate on reading or even watching TV, Castiel occupies himself by cleaning the apartment. He washes the dishes, mops the floor, scrubs the shower stall and the toilet sparkling clean, and changes the bedding. He does it all very thoroughly, taking his time, but he’s still done with everything too soon.

He takes a shower, hoping that the warm water will help him relax, loosen the knots of worry that have settled in his muscles three days ago and hadn’t left ever since, but when he steps out of the shower, he’s still as tense as he was before.

Having nothing else to do, he sits in a chair at the table and opens _Slaughterhouse Five_ , a novel that Dean recommended to him enthusiastically, lending him his own dog-eared, crumpled copy. But Castiel can’t concentrate on reading; the words have no meaning tonight, just small black squiggles on yellowed paper.

He must’ve fallen asleep sometime during the night because when he’s woken by the insistent knocking on his door, he’s collapsed on the table, face lying in the open book still open at the first page.

There’s another knock at the door. “Cas, you there?”

That’s Dean’s voice, and it brings Castiel out of his still sleepy state in a heartbeat. He jumps to his feet, knocking over his chair, and runs to open the door. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.” Dean barely looks at him, just walks inside, throws his duffle on the floor by the door, scans the room quickly, cocking an eyebrow at the pristine cleanness, picks up the overturned chair and sits on it, folding his arms and staring at his boots.

Castiel stays standing by the door, not sure what to do. “Are you hungry?” He asks finally, unable to stand the silence any longer. “I’ve got pie.”

Dean’s face remains expressionless. “Sure.”

Castiel places the plate with a large slice of the pastry in front of Dean, gets himself one too and sits across the table from Dean.

They eat in silence.

Dean looks… well, in a way, he looks better than Castiel expected. He’s shaved and he’s wearing clothes that don’t smell of alcohol or sweat or smoke. But he’s pale, lifeless, spiritless, his movements automatic, he chews on the pie with a blank stare and Castiel would bet that Dean could be eating a sand cake instead and he wouldn’t even notice the difference.

Suddenly, Dean pushes his chair back and stands up stiffly. “Mind if I take the shower?” His voice is flat and he still doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes.

“Of course not.” Castiel tries to think of anything he could say, but before he comes up with anything sensible, the bathroom door is already slammed shut, so he finishes his pie, washes the two plates, sends Sam a text message to let him know Dean’s here, and gets into bed. He finds himself wondering whether Dean will even share the bed with him, the man hasn’t tried to initiate any kind of physical contact since the moment he stepped across Castiel’s threshold.

When Dean walks out of the bathroom, he’s wearing boxers and a t-shirt, the rest of his clothes is thrown over a chair.

He stands in the middle of the room, motionless, for several minutes.

“Come to bed,” Castiel brings himself to say. “I’m tired, I want to sleep.”

That seems to do the trick. Dean nods and slips into the bed and under the blanket, keeping as much distance between him and Castiel as possible. “Thanks, Cas. For having me here,” he says awkwardly, staring up at the ceiling.

“You know I like having you here,” Castiel rolls to his side and moves with the intent to place a soft, innocent kiss on Dean’s cheek, but he before he can actually do so, Dean rolls too, turning his back to him.

*

When the alarm goes off in the morning and Castiel gets up to get ready for work, Dean pretends to be asleep. Castiel can tell that he’s not, but since he doesn’t really know what to do or say, he goes along with it.

He leaves the apartment without exchanging a word with Dean and when he comes back in the evening, Dean still mostly ignores him, avoiding eye contact and answering questions with monosyllabic words or just with gestures.

It’s unsettling.

The truth is, Castiel expected Dean to be many things: angry, irritable, depressed, spoiling for a fight, drinking… But Dean is just quiet, strangely subdued, he doesn’t make any snide remarks, actually he doesn’t really do much of anything, just sits there and stares into nothing. Instead of being destructive to everything around him, he's being self-destructive, which is so much worse. He’s holding it all inside him again, and that’s unhealthy and Castiel needs him to stop doing that.

If only he knew how to do that. Every time he tries to enter into a conversation with him, Dean very politely yet very firmly lets him know that that’s not happening.

They go to sleep. When the lights are turned off and the room is swallowed by darkness so Castiel can’t see Dean’s face, it feels like he’s sharing the bed with a complete stranger.

*

The worst thing about this whole situation is that Dean’s sour mood is quickly starting to effect Castiel as well. He snapped at Nora this morning, for no reason at all, and then spent the rest of the day apologizing to her and feeling low about it. Nora’s done nothing to deserve this kind of behavior, but then, neither did Castiel, and it’s obvious that he and Dean can’t just go on like this.

If Dean doesn’t start getting better soon, things are only bound to get worse.

*

So, after three days of returning from work and finding Dean in the exact same position as when he was leaving in the morning, Castiel comes to a decision.

“You can’t stay here.” The hurt and betrayal that flits across Dean’s face before the emotions are covered with impassiveness again make Castiel realize his mistake and he quickly rephrases: “You can’t stay inside all the time. This isn’t good for either of us.”

“What do you want me to do?” Dean asks, insecure and uneasy. He’s studying his nails intently, hiding his thoughts and feelings under lowered eyelashes and a blank face.

Well, tough luck. Castiel is done walking on tiptoes around him. “For starters, you could look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Dean jerks as if slapped, a red blush coloring his cheeks as if the blow had been physical. But he looks up and meets Castiel’s gaze with tired, watery eyes.

“Thank you,” Castiel pulls up a chair and sits, not across the table like he did in the past three days, but closer to Dean, so close that their knees are touching.

Dean’s eyes flick away for a split second, like the proximity is bothering him, but then he remembers Castiel’s words and looks into Castiel’s eyes again. He’s chewing on his lip nervously and the fingers of his hands are digging into the meat of his thighs, he’s obviously uncomfortable, but he’s trying to be good, and that’s a start. Castiel can work with that.

“Secondly, I want you to stop your silent martyrdom.”

Eyebrows scrunched together, Dean asks, “What?”

“You’re hurting because of what happened with your brother. I understand that, and I know this wound will take a long time to heal, for both of you, but if you don’t open up about it, if you just keep bottling it all up inside you, you will _never_ heal. And neither will Sam.”

Dean flinches at the mention of that name, but he doesn’t say anything, just stares at Castiel expectantly.

“Sam is angry with you, and he has every right to be,” Castiel continues, intent on saying everything that has to be said even if it’s harsh and cruel and Dean might not like hearing it at the moment. “He hasn’t given up on you though, so don’t give up on yourself either.”

That finally gets a reaction from Dean – a soft snort and a slight headshake. “Not so sure about that.”

“How come?” Castiel keeps his tone calm and even, but inside he’s celebrating. This is the first sentence Dean had imparted on him willingly since he came here.

Sighing heavily, Dean shakes his head again and licks his dry, bitten lips. “I knew it’d be bad, but Cas, the look in Sam’s eyes when I told him… It was like he lost all faith in me, like he couldn’t trust me anymore.”

“Well, you did break his trust,” Castiel says bluntly and ignores the way his heart clenches in pain in reaction to the devastated look on Dean’s careworn face. ”Now,” he raises his voice slightly, calling upon the memory of the time when he was a warrior of God, a soldier in command of others, to makes himself sound as decisive and authoritative as he can, “how about you stop whining about it, pull yourself together and get Sam’s trust back?”

Dean cocks an eyebrow and lets out something that actually sounds like a short laugh. “Wow, you kinda sounded like Bobby there, Cas.”

Taking that as a compliment and a sign to keep talking, Castiel presses on. “Sam asked you to give him some time, and you will give that to him. But you two aren’t going to stay apart forever, you never do.” A sad, wistful smile flickers across Dean’s face at that. “So when he’s ready to see you again, you’ll go and you’ll do everything in your power to fix the damage.”

“It’s not that easy, Cas.”

“I never said it was easy,” Castiel corrects Dean sternly. “It will be lengthy and painful and frustrating and it probably won’t go very smooth, considering the pride and stubbornness you and your brother share. But I believe it is doable, and Sam believes so too. And so should you.”

“I don’t think I can,” Dean goes back to examining his fingers, but Castiel lets him get away with it, mostly just glad that Dean is talking to him. “I fucked up too bad this time, I can’t see a way out of this mess.”

“Maybe not now. But they say time heals all wounds, and I believe there is a lot of truth in that saying.”

“Yeah, right.” Resignation, skepticism.

“You may not see the answer yet, but if you don’t believe in yourself right now, at least believe _me_ ,” he tries again. “Do you trust me, Dean?” At Dean’s unhesitant nod, he goes on, “Then trust me this will get better.”

Dean wipes his eyes and runs his hand down his face before looking up. “You really believe in this whole ‘everything can be fixed’ thing, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.” _I have to, considering all the wrong I’ve done_ , is what Castiel doesn’t say, but judging by the widening of Dean’s eyes and his sharp intake of breath, he can tell that Dean heard the words as clearly as if they were actually said out loud. “Also, it wasn’t really that long ago when a wise friend told me that I shouldn’t give up because of my past failures, that I should learn from my mistakes and keep trying.”

One corner of Dean’s lips twitches in a beginning of a small smile. “Cas, I was just babbling then. I would’ve said anything to get you to hunt with me again.”

“No, you weren’t babbling,” Castiel interposes and Dean doesn’t try to belittle his words again. “You believed there was a chance for me to redeem my actions, and now I believe there’s a chance for you.”

Dean doesn’t reply, but since he doesn’t protest either, Castiel takes that as a good sign.

“There’s one more thing I think you should do.” Actually, it’s how this whole discussion started in the first place.

“Hmm?”

“Get a job. Go do something.” Castiel ignores Dean’s surprised and almost affronted look. “You live here so pay your share of the rent.” He also hopes it will help Dean get his mind off the bad things thank keep pulling him under, but he doesn’t say that out loud, naturally.

“Okay.”

*

The next day, when Castiel leaves for work in the morning, Dean goes out with him and embarks on the mission of finding himself a job in Rexford, Idaho.

It’s not even noon before Castiel’s cellphone rings and Dean informs him that he was hired on the spot as a part-time mechanic at the local garage; apparently his car skills were impressive enough that the garage’s manager was willing to overlook Dean’s lack of recommendations or the suddenness of his application.

That night, when Castiel returns home from work, there’s dinner ready at the table, Dean waiting for him with a small, shy, barely there but still there enough smile.

When they go to sleep, Dean doesn’t turn his back on Castiel the moment the lights are off. He doesn’t make any attempts at any kind of physical contact either, but still, without the impenetrable barrier of his broad back and shoulders, the air between them suddenly feels much lighter.

And finally, as Dean drops Castiel off at the Gas-N-Sip the next morning, he pulls down the window, sticks his head out and calls Castiel back to give him a quick kiss.

Things are slowly going back to normal.

*

Or maybe not.

Castiel is forced to re-evaluate his earlier conviction the following night when Dean turns the lights off, casting the room into convenient near-darkness, rolls Castiel to his side and then joins him on the bed, his back to Castiel's front and naked ass grinding against Castiel’s rapidly hardening cock. “I want you to fuck me,” he whispers hoarsely. “Need to feel it.”

In some distant corner of Castiel’s mind, a small part of him warns him that something’s amiss, but it’s very difficult to listen to that part when Dean is moving against him like this, inviting, seducing, skillful, deliberate.

“Cas, come on, please.”

“Alright,” Castiel lifts slightly, trying to lean over Dean so he can take the lube from the nightstand.

“Don’t need that,” Dean catches his hand before it reaches its objective and guides it to the place where their bodies meet instead. “Come on, just do it, Cas. Need to feel it.”

Castiel halts, realizes what this is about, and moves away from Dean so they’re not touching anymore. “No.”

“Cas, please!” Dean turns his head backwards awkwardly so he can throw a plaintive look at Castiel, but still keeps his body facing away from him. And why would he do that exactly?

In a quick, sudden move, Castiel reaches out with one hand, around Dean’s body and down towards his crotch. Dean jerks and moves away until he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, but he’s not fast enough to hide his lack of erection. He’s not even half-hard.

Castiel sits up and watches Dean’s hunched shoulders but he doesn’t dare touch him. “You wanted me to hurt you,” he accuses him in a hard voice, because this has really made him angry. “You were lying to me, deceiving me, trying to _use me_.”

“I woulda made it good for you,” Dean says as if that makes it okay.

“You…” He actually has to take several deep, calming breaths and count slowly to ten to make sure he doesn’t say anything he’d regret later. “You were trying to get me to punish you. But I’m not going to do that.”

Dean hangs his head. “I just wanted to feel something.”

“Well, you’re not going to feel _that_ , not on my watch,” Castiel shifts closer to the other man, places a tentative hand on his tense shoulder. “You want to feel something? You’re going to feel love.”

“I don’t–“

“If you say you don’t deserve love, I swear I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life.”

Dean stays silent.

“Come back here,” Castiel tugs at Dean’s shoulder and Dean lets himself be pulled back into bed. Castiel arranges him the way he wants him – on his back – and then climbs on top of him, stretches himself above Dean like the vault of heaven, knees on either side of Dean’s hips and elbows bracketing Dean’s head, and only then does he bend down to place a soft, wet kiss on Dean’s forehead. He keeps his mouth there and doesn’t move, waits for Dean to relax under him.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is small, vulnerable, scared.

“I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.” He places more soft, tender kisses on Dean’s brow, on his temples and his cheeks – without commenting on the salty wetness that he encounters there – and finally on his trembling mouth, swallowing Dean’s little, almost inaudible sobs. He rests his weight on one hand only and lets the other one roam over Dean’s body, first down his neck, where the skin is warm and blood pulses under it, then across his clavicle and over his heaving chest to finally let it rest across Dean’s wildly beating heart.

Without saying a word, Dean wraps his arms around Castiel and pulls him down until Castiel is lying on top of him, and Castiel doesn’t try to carry his weight, lets Dean feel it all, using the crude physicality to show him that he’s truly here and he’s intending to stay.

“I just don’t see a way out of this,” Dean tells him when he’s able to speak again. “He’s not gonna give me another chance.”

“Oh, but he is. You’ve been in situations like this before, Dean, and you always pulled through.”

“Not like this.”

“Really?” Castiel’s arms and legs are starting to go numb from staying in the same position for too long, but if Dean doesn’t complain, he’s not going to move. “After Sam left you beaten and bleeding in that motel room and went against Lilith with Ruby… Do you think he expected you two to make peace again?”

Dean shakes his head, his stubble scraping against Castiel’s. “I told him that if he walked out that door, he should never come back. So I guess not.”

“But it didn’t even take one day before you started looking for him. You couldn’t just leave him alone. Couldn’t stand being without him.”

“Of course not.”

“And me,” Castiel continues. “When you learned that I had been working with Crowley and lying to you for the whole year, and then when I let the Leviathan in and nearly destroyed the world… Do you think I expected we would ever be friends again? Or more?”

“Cas, I…”

“But you gave me another chance, and you fought for me, looked for me in Purgatory. You forgave me, you forgave Sam, and you let us both back in. Why do you think it should be any different now?”

“Because,” Dean starts, then sighs and doesn’t finish.

“Yes, that’s an excellent reason, I’m completely convinced now.”

“Shut up.” It’s tired, without any of Dean’s usual intensity, but it feels real.

***

Things make a definite turn towards the better about one week after Dean came to Idaho. Castiel is in the shower and he doesn’t hear his cellphone ringing, so when he comes out of the bathroom, he finds Dean standing in the middle of the room, dumbfounded, staring at the phone in his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

Dean looks up, perplexed but in a good way. “Sam called you.”

“Well, he does that,” Castiel admits. “To check on you, make sure you’re doing okay.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Dean is biting on his lip, but he’s still unable to keep the corners of his mouth down.

“So, what did you talk about?”

“Nothing much. He said he’s still pissed at me.” Yet Dean is full-out grinning now. “But he also told me to keep my head out of trouble, and to be nice to you ‘cause, uh, you’re my ‘guardian angel’,” he makes air quotes with his fingers, “and he says that must be the toughest job in the universe.”

“It is, sometimes,” Castiel nods his head just to see Dean sweat, but he lightens his statement with a mischievous wink. “It has its perks, though.”

“Like what?”

“Like seeing you smile. Hearing you laugh.”

Dean makes a disgusted face. “God, Cas, stop! No chick flick moments!” But despite his words, he crosses the room in several long, purposeful strides and pulls Castiel into a hug that soon turns into a kiss, and not a shy, chaste one, but a kiss with battling tongues and clashing teeth and grabbing hands, one that leaves them both breathless and wanting more.

“Cas?” Dean speaks as he plants nibbling kisses on Castiel’s neck, “If I ask you to fuck me now, are you gonna turn me down again?”

Sneaking one hand down Dean’s chest and under the waistband of his jeans to palm his straining erection, Castiel looks up to examine Dean’s face, searching for any signs of trouble. When he finds none, he starts tugging Dean towards the bed.

***

Aside from working as a part-time mechanic, Dean also somehow becomes a part-time babysitter. It starts with Nora complaining that her usual babysitter’s come down with a cold and there’s no one else to take care of baby Tanya.

Castiel suggests Dean, and while Nora seems a bit surprised at first, when he explains that Dean practically raised his younger brother by himself and that he’s always been very good with children, the worry lines on her face are replaced with a hopeful expression. Castiel rounds it off with telling Nora that it was actually Dean who helped him babysit Tanya that first time, when she had a fever and Castiel panicked.

And that’s how Dean gets the job.

When Castiel’s shift is over, Nora drives him to her place because that’s where Dean’s Impala is parked.

“Come on in,” she invites Castiel, holding the door open for him and they enter together and follow the sounds of hushed TV into the living room, where they find Dean sprawled on the couch, dozing, with little Tanya sleeping soundly on his chest, held in place by one large, gentle hand.

“Ooh, they’re so adorable,” Nora whispers and practically bounces on the balls of her feet. “Don’t wake them up, I’ll just get my camera and take a picture.”

Castiel waits obediently while she rummages through her drawers, and observes Dean with the sleeping child.

He’s secretly watched Dean with Ben and Lisa sometimes, and he’s seen him with Sam, so he’s always known how much gentleness is hidden in the man, how perceptive and sensitive he can be, how comforting and soothing is the touch of his hands – and these are the hands of a killer, rough and calloused, with crooked fingers and myriads of little nicks and scars. He knows all that, and much more, but still, he’s sure the hidden layers of Dean Winchester will never cease to amaze him.

“Quit staring, you old creep,” Dean mutters, obviously awake now.

“You’re supposed to be still sleeping, Nora wants to take a picture,” Castiel informs him in a low whisper.

“No way. No pictures.”

“But I’d also like to have that picture,” Castiel says, pouts a little and puts on his best angelic expression.

Dean sighs. “Okay, fine. I’m still asleep.” He closes his eyes and keeps them that way when Nora finally comes back and snaps a picture.

She gives Castiel a copy later, and he makes the mistake of showing it to the guys at work. It has two effects: Dean earns the nickname Teddy Bear and he also finds new babysitting clients. Dean is grumpy and sulky about the nickname, but he doesn’t complain about the kids at all.

Or, well, he does, but only for appearance’s sake, and he’s not very convincing at it anyway.

***

In the morning of Castiel’s day off, he wakes up to the by now unusual feeling of a too empty bed. Before he has the time to start worrying though, he sees Dean walk out of the bathroom. He’s wearing suit pants and a white dress shirt, and he’s fiddling with the knot of his tie.

When Dean notices that Castiel is awake, he gives him a warm smile and brings him a hot cup of coffee. “Get up, sunshine. We’re going out.”

“For breakfast?” Castiel asks hopefully. He'd like that.

Dean laughs. “No, not what I meant, sorry. Sam called, said he has a case for us in Montana.”

Sitting up and climbing out of bed, Castiel asks through a yawn, “What kind of case?”

“A witch, looks like. Man, I really hate those.” Dean slaps Castiel on his ass when Castiel passes him by on his way to the bathroom. “So hurry up, we’ve got work to do.”

Thirty minutes later, they’re in the Impala, dressed up and fake badges ready, Rexford behind them and miles and miles of road ahead. Personally, Castiel was looking forward to spending the day differently, but he knows they have to do this, and when he throws a glance at Dean – whose lips are curled into a small, satisfied smile and his eyes are shining with excitement and enthusiasm – he thinks this day might not just be that bad after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it time to go home yet?

Dean starts the car and closes his eyes, listening intently to the sound.

No. Still not good enough. He turns the engine off and gets out of the 1984 Bronco, walks to the front and pops the hood with a scowl. “Come on, girl, play nice.”

“Still wrestling with the Bronco?”

Dean throws a quick glance at Todd, his boss at the garage, before turning his attention back to the car. He’ll have to take the carb apart again. “Yeah. The sound’s not right.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I just heard it and it seemed fine to me,” Todd makes himself useful by taking the air filter from Dean and placing it aside as he speaks. “The car’s all fixed and ready to go.”

“No, it’s not.” Todd might not see – or hear, in this case – the difference, but Dean knows that it’s there, just as he knows that the Bronco’s owner is very fond of his car. “This lady could be in a better shape and I’m not going to hand her over before I’m sure I did everything I could.”

“It’s a car, Dean, not a person.”

Dean grins, he’s heard that one countless times before. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be loved.”

Todd laughs and claps Dean on the shoulder. “Oh, you’re a sentimental one. Okay, I’ll leave you two alone then. I’m packing it in for the day.”

“Okay.”

“Make sure everything’s closed and locked when you leave.”

“Sure.”

Todd walks off.

It’s another thirty minutes before Dean’s finally satisfied with the Bronco’s sound. “Good girl,” he praises her. He likes the feeling of knowing he did something right, fixed something that was broken.

If only people and relationships were as easy to fix as cars.

*

He gets back to the apartment just in time to take a quick shower, change into clean clothes and bolt down the leftover Chinese from yesterday, and then he’s off again.

The house where Freddy’s brother and his family lives is at the edge of town and when Dean gets there, they’re already waiting for him in the front yard.

“Sorry I’m late,” he apologizes to Freddy’s brother Jack and Jack’s wife Marylin while the kids wrap themselves around his legs like koalas grab onto trees. “I got stuck at the garage.”

“Don’t sweat it man,” Jack says with a smile. “We’ll be back by ten.”

“There’s dinner in the oven,” Marylin interrupts her husband and does the typical caring mother shtick, the whole don’t let the kids catch a chill, don’t give them too much candy, don’t let them watch TV the whole time. Dean listens to it all even though he’s already heard it before, nods his head when he’s supposed to nod and shakes it when he’s supposed to shake it, and finally Marylin is appeased and lets Jack drag her into the car and the couple’s car pulls away.

Waiting until the car is out of sight, Dean looks down at the two boys standing by his side and feels his lips widen into a smile when he sees the excited expressions on their faces. “So, what do you wanna do?”

Tony and Matt direct twin devious grins at him and Dean’s smile falters slightly. It’s going to be a long night.

*

“You look tired,” Cas observes when Dean drags himself through the door later and all but collapses onto the nearest chair, leaning back and rubbing at his face.

“Well, I just spent over two hours being a terrorist hunted by two five-year-old SWAT guys and man, they didn’t pull any punches.” He slips out of his jacket with some difficulty and rolls up his shirt sleeve. “Look, Tony bit me.”

“You poor man.”

“Hey! These kids are vicious!”

“You’re such a crybaby sometimes,” Castiel sighs but he brings Dean a cold beer from the fridge, effectively proving that in all the ways it counts, he’s still an angel.

“You’re perfect,” Dean groans in pleasure at the first swig and catches Cas by the arm, pulls him down until Cas is straddling his lap. It puts weight on his thigh where a bruise from Matt’s small booted foot is already forming, but that’s okay, Cas’s kisses will make it all better.

***

On December 2, Dean takes his cellphone and makes a call.

“Dean? What?” Kevin sounds as if he’s just woken up, slightly disoriented and more than just a little grumpy. “I told you I’m working on the translation as fast–“

“Kevin. Kevin!”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not calling because of the damn translation, okay?”

A surprised pause. “No? Why, then?”

“Because it’s your birthday, you dumbass!”

“Really?” Another pause, then a short laugh. “Oh. I guess I forgot.”

“I thought you would. But we didn’t.”

“We?”

“Yeah, we.” Where the hell is Sam, he should be in Kevin’s room already. Dean listens closely for any sounds from the other end of the line, waiting, hoping that his brother did everything as planned. They talked it through in advance, putting aside the crap between them for Kevin’s sake.

“Oh! Hi, Sam!”

Dean perks up. “Is he wearing the funny paper hat?”

“He is,” Kevin says. “And he says there’s cake in the dining room.”

“Of course there is. I picked it out, had it delivered to the bunker,” Dean says proudly.

“Wow. That’s…” Kevin’s voice trembles and then he sniffs. “Thanks, guys.”

“Yeah. Happy birthday from me and Cas, Kev.” Dean forces himself to sound cheerful. He wishes he could be there, throw a proper birthday party for the kid, and give him at least one day of normal life. He had it all planned too, before shit went down with Sam and Zeke, before he had to leave the bunker. He’d get heaps of fast food and booze and confetti – because the confetti cannon is awesome, he'd seen it at a birthday party of one of Ben's friends once – and they’d all be there: Kevin and Sam and Cas and Dean, and maybe some hot chicks, and they’d play loud, good music and get totally wasted and…

Well, maybe next year.

***

There are more and more reports of found dead bodies with their eyes burned out and internal organs scorched to ashes, suggesting that angels are killing humans. The million dollar question is why, of course, and to that, neither Dean nor Cas, and even Sam and Kevin at the bunker have an answer yet. The working theory is that one faction is trying to take potential vessels from the other faction, but since the only faction they know is Bartholomew's, that’s not really much to go by.

Dean pushes his laptop away in frustration, just barely resisting the urge to fling it against a wall. “We’re not gonna learn anything from dead bodies, no matter how many crime scenes we visit, how many witnesses and family members we interview.”

“What do you suggest then?” Castiel looks tired where he sits at the table across from Dean, studying police reports and marking red crosses on a large map of the States. His eyes are bloodshot, eyelids heavy, the stubble not doing a good job of covering pale, greyish skin. Dean knows he doesn’t look any better.

“Isn’t there someone you could ask? A friendly angel who’s not out of the loop like you are?”

“I don’t think so,” Cas’s lips form a thin, dissatisfied line.

“Maybe I could send out another prayer, call for help.”

“And do what? Hope that the first angel that gets to you isn’t going to smite you the moment he sees you?”

“Well, yeah. Worked before.”

Cas stands up, the chair legs scratching at the floor as he pushes it away. “I won’t allow that, it’s too risky.”

“Well, maybe it’s a risk we have to take, okay?” Dean stands up too so they’re face to face for this shouting match. It’s not their first one either, they’ve been over this before, but just as Cas stubbornly keeps saying no, Dean keeps saying yes. “People are dying, Cas! Don’t you think we should at least try to stop that?”

“I know they’re dying, Dean, I’m the one who caused this, remember?”

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Cas, I’m sorry.” It feels like all Dean does lately is apologize – to Sam (every night, before he goes to bed, he sends a text message, sometimes he calls), to Kevin (when he calls him at random times to have him look up something in a book or on the net), to Cas (when the weight of it all gets too heavy and crushing and Dean inevitably blows and Cas is in the area of explosion).

“You can’t call the angels like this,” Cas says, standing by the window and looking out, his tense back turned to Dean and his voice carefully controlled. “It’s too dangerous. I couldn’t bear to lose you like this.”

“Cas–“

The fallen angel raises one hand for silence. “No. This is pointless, insane. Wouldn’t do us any good.” He finally turns to face Dean, an intense, serious expression on his face. “If it was Sam who suggested calling the angels, you would say no. So please oblige me when I say no to you now. Promise me you won’t do it.”

Dean doesn’t want to promise, but he also doesn’t want Cas looking at him like this. “Fine, I promise.”

*

The next Friday, Cas comes back from work late. He’s strangely quiet and he keeps throwing these weird looks in Dean’s direction. He’s probably trying to be nonchalant and casual, but he’s not doing a very good job of it, Dean can see right through that mask and he recognizes the expression hidden underneath pretty well because it’s one he’s used to seeing in the mirror. Guilt.

“So spill, Cas. What’d you do?” He cuts straight to the chase.

Cas jumps, frowns. “I didn’t…” He sighs and shakes his head. “I talked to an angel today.”

“You _what?”_ He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “After what you told me? How dangerous and risky it was? You hypocritical son of a bitch!”

“It wasn’t like that,” Cas says quickly, voice and posture placating. “I didn’t call for them. She just… she came to the store to buy a road map.”

“What?”

“Her name is Muriel. She’s scared of all the destruction the angels wreak and she’s trying to get away, hide and wait it out.”

“So she’s trying to remain neutral?”

“Yes. And she’s not alone apparently, although the number of angels who are still managing to stay outside the fighting is rapidly receding.” Cas looks sad and disappointed in his brethren. “She says the warring factions are forcing angels to choose sides under threat of torture or death.”

Dean grimaces in sympathy. “Yeah, which reminds me, have I mentioned today that angels are dicks?”

Cas passes the comment over and continues talking. “I asked her to tell me about the current situation. She refused to talk at first, she’s afraid of getting involved in any way. But I managed to persuade her.”

“How? You appealed to her sense of duty and honor?”

“Yes.” Cas smiles softly at Dean’s surprise. “She’s a good angel, Dean. She’s just scared. They’re all still scared, not used to being on their own, without orders, without direction. Most of them will follow anyone who will lead just because they think they need to be told what to do.”

Dean opens his mouth to make another caustic comment, but when he sees Castiel’s fond expression, he doesn’t. The angels may be dicks, but they are – or were, at least – Cas’s family, and Cas still cares about them, still wants to help them and protect them, that’s pretty obvious. Dean shouldn’t ridicule him for taking care of his family. It’s the same thing he’s been doing his whole life.

“Muriel told me about the competing factions,” Cas says and sits down. His stomach rumbles loudly and he frowns, looks at Dean. “Do we have anything to eat?”

“I’ll fix you something,” Dean offers and opens the small fridge and then the pantry, examines the contents. There’s enough stuff in there for him to whip up some chicken fajita tostadas. He starts by taking out all the ingredients. “I'm listening. You keep on talking.”

“So, about these factions. There’s Bartholomew,” Cas says. “He’s using Reverend Buddy Boyle’s program for finding vessels.”

“Yeah, we already know that.” He starts cutting up the chicken breasts, easy and quick because he’s always been good with knives, and not just in combat situations.

“But we didn’t know what all those people getting killed by angels meant. Now we do. It’s the opposition killing vessels intended for Bartholomew’s soldiers.”

“And did this Muriel chick tell you who exactly that opposition is?”

“There are several other leaders on the rise.” Castiel stands up, stretches his arms and walks over to the kitchen counter, takes a large bell pepper, rinses it and starts cutting. “There’s Zerachiel, one from Zachariah’s circle.”

“God, it felt good, stabbing Zach in the face,” Dean reminiscences with a smile as he starts slicing a large onion.

“Then there’s Malachi. I don’t know much about him, he was one of the lower ranks,” Cas opens a packet of the taco seasoning mix and stirs it with water in a bowl. “Muriel said he’s very brutal in his methods and he’s sort of a fanatic.”

The chicken and the sauce are put in a skillet and the stove is turned on. “A brutal fanatic. Great.”

“And he’s gaining power quickly. He’s almost as powerful as Bartholomew now, which forced Bartholomew to consider an alliance with Zerachiel. They’re negotiating the terms of a treaty now.”

Dean lays the tostada shells on a baking sheet and tops each with a dose of chicken, beans, peppers and onions while Cas sprinkles it with grated cheese. “You know what I hate most about this? It’s all just politics. And I _can’t stand_ politics.”

Cas puts the baking sheet with the tostadas in the oven. “It’s a very delicate matter.”

“Hey, and did Muriel tell you what exactly do they want? Either of them?” Dean leans on the counter and pulls Cas close, wrapping one arm around his waist as they wait.

Cas rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. “To reclaim Heaven, of course. Restore order, become the new boss. The usual.”

“Just wonderful.” Dean peeks into the oven. The cheese is already melting and so he turns the oven off and takes the baking sheet out while Cas prepares two plates.

They eat then, suspending the debate about angel politics for the sake of good food. When they’re done, neither of them feels like moving to clean up, so they just stay where they are. Okay, so Dean stands up and makes the epic, heroic journey to the fridge to get two bottles of beer, but that’s about it.

“So, what did you do with Muriel after you had that little chat?” Dean asks finally when his bottle is half drained.

“I let her go.” Cas sees Dean’s cocked eyebrows and raises a finger to stop him from protesting. “She won’t betray us, Dean. I am sure of that. And she didn’t deserve to die.”

Dean can’t really argue with that. He just hopes Cas is right about Muriel’s discreetness.

***

“I’ll come late tonight, don’t wait up for me,” Cas tells Dean over breakfast.

“Why? I thought we were going out tonight, have some fun with the guys.” Dean’s become really fond of the three deliverymen and Castiel’s friends. They’re all cool, laidback guys, all three of them unbelievably normal, regular people – okay, maybe Freddy isn’t _completely_ normal, but he’s _Freddy_ so it’s okay. Normal people aren't something Dean’s particularly used to so it’s still kind of a new experience spending time with them.

“I can’t, I have to stay at the store. We’ll be doing the last big pre-Christmas stocktaking; Nora said it’s going to take a long time.” Cas pours himself another cup of coffee and drinks it with an expression of gratefulness and joy. He’s slowly but surely getting addicted on the stuff. “But you can still go with the guys, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

The offer is very tempting but Dean has his principles and one of those principles is you don’t let a fallen angel do stocktaking alone when you can help him. Or something like that. “I could drop by, give you and Nora a hand at the store.”

“Dean, you don’t have to. You already work hard enough.”

That might be true. Between the garage and the babysitting and hunting things, Dean really doesn’t have much free time left, but he likes being busy; it helps him keep his mind off the bad stuff like that Dean’s practically exiled from his home now, or that they still haven’t gotten any closer to fixing the fallen angels situation, or any number of other not-so-positive things that only make Dean cranky as hell if he thinks about them. “Come on. I wanna help.”

And that’s why at two a.m. Dean is at the Gas-N-Sip, slowly going crazy from all the counting and writing numbers into sheets, feeling – and probably looking – like a zombie. There’s also zombie Cas and zombie Nora, but they’re not much of a company because they’re doing their own counting and writing down.

It’s tiring and tedious, and slow, and nothing like Dean had imagined. Okay, so everything he knew about doing stocktaking was what he’d seen in a porn flick once. It was about a bunch of busty college girls taking a holiday job at this weird store full of young, manly guys, and… yeah, probably not the most trustworthy source of information.

If Sam was here, he’d probably tell Dean something about confusing porn with reality again and then Dean would have to insult Sam creatively and Sam would insult him back and then they’d both try to hide their smiles and fail and God, Dean misses having Sammy around.

Oh great. Now he's lost count of the Hershey’s chocolate bars. He’s going to have to start all over again.

*

“You _willingly_ offered to help?” Sam wonders the next day when Dean calls him to catch him up on his current situation. “That’s pretty hard to believe. I bet you thought it would turn into an all-night orgy.”

“Come on, man, I’m not that shallow!”

“Not sure about that. Okay, so maybe you're not.” There’s unmistakable fondness in Sam’s voice. It’s not the first time Dean’s heard it in the past few weeks, actually he’s hearing it more and more often.

“So, how’s the translation of the tablet going?” Dean changes the subject. “Still nothing?”

“Well, Kevin thinks there are some parts written so indecipherably that it looks as if Metatron was trying to make sure even a Prophet wouldn’t be able to read it.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yeah. I guess it can only mean there’s something dangerous on that tablet, something that could... I don't know, maybe reverse Metatron’s spell? Or weaken him?”

Dean nods. He has to tell Cas about this. “Whatever it is, he’s tried really hard to keep it hidden so it must be important.”

“Yeah.”

Sam doesn’t say anything after that and Dean figures the end of their call is approaching, so he says what he always says when they talk: “Sam, I’m sorry for lying to you.”

Sam sighs, like he usually does. “I know.” Then, after a beat, “Hey, Dean? So why did you even tell me about Ezekiel? I mean, he was ready to leave me anyway and there was a chance I’d never even remember him being inside me.”

“I thought about it,” Dean admits honestly. “I thought about it a lot. Practically all the time ‘cause I knew you’d be colossally pissed – and rightfully, too – once I told you.”

“Again, I ask: so why did you tell me?”

What, is Sam so dense that he doesn’t know right away? The answer is ridiculously, stupidly simple: “I couldn’t stand lying to you, that’s why! You deserved to know the truth, even if it meant you’d never speak to me again.”

Aside from Sam’s breathing, there’s only silence, silence heavy with something big and important hanging in the air. Dean doesn’t know if it’s going to be good or bad so he just holds his breaths and prays for the former.

Finally, after what feels like minutes, Sam speaks. “Dean? Why don’t you just come home?”

It takes Dean embarrassingly long before he realizes what his brother means, and then it takes him even longer to realize that Sam really means it.

“Dean? Are you there? Did you hang up on me?”

Dean shakes the initial shock off and quickly answers, “Yeah, I’m here. And man, I’d love to come home.”

Sam smiles, Dean can tell from the short huff of air he hears from the phone, and he knows his brother so well that he can even identify the specific type of smile – it’s the small, relieved one, almost shy, with Sam bending his head a little and hair falling over his eyes. It’s beautiful and Dean can’t wait to see it in person.

“So you’ll come?”

“Are you crazy? I’d get in the car and go right now if I could!” But it’s not that simple. “It’s gonna take us a couple of days though, I don’t think Cas would like to just sneak away without saying proper goodbyes and stuff. And I wouldn’t like that either.”

“Okay, that’s good. At least I’ll have enough time to get rid of all the promiscuous hot young women living in the bunker,” Sam jokes. He _is_ joking, right?

“You’re joking, right?”

“Dean, come on.”

“Right.” Dean is grinning like a complete idiot, he’s missed the light, easy banter so much. “Sam? Why’d you decide to take me back? Is the spirit of Christmas getting to you or what?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Shut up.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Sammy? Thanks.”

***

“I’m going to miss them,” Cas sighs as they pass the _Now leaving Rexford_ sign. He’s been taciturn ever since Dean told him they’re going home and Dean can’t really blame him – Cas has made friends here, he’s met a lot of good, nice people that truly care about him, and he cares about them, and Nora actually cried when she hugged him goodbye this morning.

“I’m gonna miss them too,” Dean admits. He’ll miss everyone, but especially the kids. They were all crazy balls of restless, inexhaustible energy, what with the running around, climbing furniture and trees and people, the screaming and cuddling and crying and playing with food and making a mess… They sure managed to wear him out far better than a night’s worth of digging graves could, but there was something so positive, so pure and good radiating from them that it was always more than worth it.

“We’re leaving this place with a lot of good memories,” Castiel observes after a while of silence. “I learned a lot about people here.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dean agrees. He doesn’t think he’s ever met so many nice people in one place in his entire life. But maybe that’s because of Cas. People tend to be nice to him and so inevitably they have to be nice to Dean too. Yeah, that’s probably it.

“I’m glad we’re going home though,” Cas says after a while, his expression serene and thoughtful.

“You sure?”

Cas’s expression starts cracking around his eyes and the corners of his mouth and soon he’s grinning. “Of course. The water pressure at the bunker is incredible.”

*

Eight hours of driving later, they’re in Wyoming and Dean decides they’ve had enough for the day and starts looking for motels.

Then he notices a narrow road that seems to lead towards a small groove and he takes the turn. Five more minutes and he pulls up, looks around – the place is secluded, covered by trees from all sides, no car probably passed here in days – and nods in satisfaction before turning the headlights off. He leaves the engine idling.

“Dean? What are we doing here?”

Dean slips _Bad Company_ into the tape player and when the music starts, he leans back in his seat, head against the backrest, and looks Cas in the eyes.

Cas is quick to understand. He glances around nervously, “Here? Now?”

“Why not?” Stretching his back with a groan, Dean spreads his legs, keeps his head tilted back, arms crossed under. “’S not like anyone’s gonna see us.”

Tongue darting out to lick at his lips, Cas seems to be having an internal battle. “Why now?”

“’Cause if things go smooth, we won’t have Baby to ourselves often from now on.” Dean explains, but he’s counting on the effect of his seductive behavior more than on the effect of his words. “Gotta make use of the opportunity. Come on, don’t tell me you don’t wanna.”

“I’m just a human, Dean,” Cas says and leans over, drawing near until his face is mere inches from Dean’s. “How am I supposed to resist your charms?”

"You're not."

They kiss finally, both moaning in pleasure that spikes instantly the moment their lips touch. Dean brings up his hands to cradle Cas’s head and Cas does the same, fingers carding through short, thick hair as they taste each other, tongues moving in a slow, sensuous dance that brings Dean’s whole body to full awareness, anticipation coursing through his veins and quickening his pulse.

Cas moves, crawls until he’s sitting in Dean’s lap, grinding down against Dean’s jean-clad erection in rhythm with his tongue plunging into Dean’s mouth.

“Cas, why don’t we take this to the back?” Dean asks as soon as his mouth is free while Cas is nibbling at his earlobe. “It’s gonna be much more comfortable.”

“Okay,” hot breath against his ear, making Dean shiver. “Let’s do that.”

They disentangle from each other awkwardly, too many too long limbs and too little space, and get out of the car, the chill of December air a shock in contrast with the well-heated interior. It does nothing to reduce the heat between them though.

Taking things to the back proves to be more difficult than expected because the backseat is occupied by some stuff they’re taking with them from Rexford that didn’t fit into the trunk. There are some of Cas’s books (he’s managed to get himself quite a collection), a large box of dishware that Cas didn’t want to part with and one smaller box with drawings and all kinds of stuff the kids Dean’s babysat made for him. They move it all to the front seats as fast as they can and finally get in the back to resume what they started in the front, one kiss enough to re-establish the mood.

Dean slowly undresses Castiel, removing one piece of clothing after another. He’s taking his time, covers the newly revealed skin with kisses and licks and nibbles, smiling when he feels Cas tremble under his touch. He could do this for _hours._ He could get lost in this.

Castiel points out Dean is wearing too many clothes so he strips quickly, doesn’t let Cas help, pushes him gently yet firmly back into the seat when Cas tries to touch him, settles between Cas’s parted legs and kisses him long and deep. He wants this to be about Cas and only Cas.

Dean wants to thank him for being so patient and so good to him, for taking care of him when Dean felt low, for being a source of strength and support, for not allowing Dean to lose hope. He still isn’t good with words so he thanks Cas with his body, certain that Cas will understand, Cas will know, because somehow Cas always knows.

He keeps kissing Cas almost the whole time, unwilling to lose the connection, the contact. Cas moans into the kiss when Dean circles one slick finger around his opening, gasps when Dean pushes the finger inside, bites at Dean’s lip when Dean replaces fingers with his cock and slides inside.

They’re still kissing when Dean starts moving inside Cas, their bodies touching, hot skin against skin, the rhythm slow and unhurried. There’s nothing frantic about it, their lovemaking not driven by the need for release but by the need for closeness, oneness. It’s not a steep climb, it’s dancing on the waves of pleasure and the dance doesn’t end once they climax. They come down just as slowly and unhurriedly as they climbed up, their mouths still joined in a kiss.

It’s without doubt the mushiest, sappiest sex Dean’s ever had and it would make a love scene that even Titanic would be no match for, and yet Dean is completely at peace with that. In fact, he’s already planning on a repeat. Only maybe with their positions switched. Yeah, Cas on top of him and inside him, that sounds good.

“Let’s find a motel,” he says and Cas nods, a knowing smirk on his lips.

***

When they cross the state border to Kansas, Dean inexplicably wishes the distance between Rexford and Lebanon was bigger. It’d been almost a month since he’s last seen Sam and he had all that time to think about what to say once he’d see him again, but now as the Impala swallows the miles, it feels like they’re going too fast.

Dean is having a hard time trying not to panic.

“It’s going to be all good,” Cas tells him, placing one hand on Dean’s thigh and squeezing.

“Yeah,” Dean replies. Just one word and his voice is still shaking.

Cas doesn’t say anything else but he keeps his hand on Dean’s leg.

When they enter Lebanon, Dean’s heart is hammering in his chest, his throat is dry and scratchy and his palms are sweaty on the steering wheel.

“Maybe it’s still too soon,” Dean says as casually as he can because they’re quickly approaching the turning to the bunker and this might be his last chance to back out of this.

“It’s not too soon.” Cas sounds convinced enough for both of them but it still doesn’t ease Dean’s mind at all. “Sam is ready. He’s giving you a second chance. Don’t waste it.”

Dean takes the turn to the bunker and he can see Sam and Kevin. They’re waiting in front of the door, hands in their pockets, expressions unreadable from this distance.

He parks the Impala, turns the engine off, sends one last SOS look in Cas’s direction and gets out.

Time to face the music.

He walks until he’s two, maybe three steps from his brother. Sam is watching him with an expression that Dean can’t read, Kevin standing one step behind Sam, Cas one step behind Dean. It’s like the beginning of a duel or something.

Dean is obviously the one supposed to start.

He clears his throat, looks down at the gravel under his boots, then at Sam’s face. “Heya, Sammy.”

Sam’s impenetrable façade crumples, emotions pouring in – too many to identify them all, but Dean can see relief and forgiveness and love among them and that’s more than he could ever ask for. “Dean.”

And then he’s pulled into a bear hug, Sam’s large, long arms squeezing Dean so tightly that he can’t breathe but that’s alright because he doesn’t need air when he can have Sam instead, so he gratefully wraps his arms around Sam in return and closes his eyes.

He’s home.

There’s no telling how much time has passed before they end the hug, Sam taking a step back and taking a deep breath, straightening up. His smile disappears and he looks at Dean with pleading, emphatic eyes. “You’ll never lie to me again. Ever.”

Dean nods. “I won’t.”

Sam nods back as if that’s enough for him. “Good.” He moves on to greet Cas next.

Kevin comes up to Dean. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, kid,” Dean smiles and spreads his arms out, expecting a hug.

It doesn’t come.

“What you did to Sam… I get why you did it,” Kevin tells him. “I understand why Sam was so mad at you for it, but I get it. If I was in your shoes and my mom was in Sam’s, I wouldn’t hesitate.” He pauses, thinks for a moment before continuing, “What I don’t get is why you didn’t at least tell _me_ about it. I mean, I could’ve helped you, you know? And I think I have the right to know I’m living with a stranger angel under one roof.”

“Yeah, but–“

“Just let me finish.” Kevin waits for Dean to nod his consent. “From what I gathered, you actually had no proof that this Ezekiel guy was who he said he was. For all we know he could’ve been someone else, a bad guy, Bartholomew’s spy, heck, he could’ve been anyone! He could’ve hurt me.”

“But he didn’t!”

“Yeah, because we got lucky,” Kevin is still serious, no trace of a smile, no warmth in his eyes. “So all I want to hear from you is the same promise you gave to Sam. You’ll never lie to me again.”

Dean has no choice if he wants to gain Kevin’s trust and friendship back. And he does want that; the boy's become part of his family and Dean needs him, just like he needs Sam and Cas. “Fine. You have my word.” He offers Kevin his hand and Kevin takes it, but instead of shaking it he uses it to pull Dean closer and they hug, too.

“I’m sorry, for everything,” Dean whispers, loud enough that all three men can hear him. He feels small and unimportant and undeserving of their love and forgiveness but infinitely thankful for it anyway.

“Come on in already,” Sam says finally, breaking the silence. “It’s cold here, I’ll freeze my ass off.”

“That’s because it’s winter, you dumbass,” Dean informs him as they walk to the entrance door. “You need to get some warm winter clothing before you catch something. And you too,” he adds, pointing at Cas and Kevin who roll their eyes at him.

“Oh, the mother hen is home,” Sam sighs theatrically and holds the door open for them, giving Dean a warm, sincere smile as Dean passes through the door.

“Yeah, home,” Dean smiles back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas and someone's knocking on the door.

As an angel, Castiel never ceased to be surprised at how much importance the humans attached to worldly, fleshly things like the tastiness of their food, the temperature of the water they wash themselves with or the comfortableness of the bed they sleep in.

Now, as he wakes up in Dean’s room – no, _his_ _and Dean’s room_ – in the bed with the memory foam mattress that Dean kept raving about endlessly when they were in Idaho, he isn’t ashamed to admit that the worldly, fleshly things have become important to him, too. He hasn’t slept this well in… well, probably never.

Dean is still sleeping and Castiel knows they don’t have to get up yet so he stays where he is, on his back next to his lover, and takes to examining the room, the nightlight in the corner providing enough light for his dark-accustomed eyes to make out all the important details. He still finds the shotguns and machetes and other kinds of weapons morbid but he thinks he understands why Dean likes having them here, on the walls, so he’s not going to make Dean take them down, just like he promised.

There’s still enough space on the walls left though so he thinks he’d like to put some things of his own there. Maybe some pictures, photographs of architecture or a mountain landscape, something with lots of trees and sky and space, because that’s the only thing he’s going to miss in the bunker – the windows.

“You’re not thinking of hanging something terrible in my room, are you?”

Castiel turns his head to look at Dean, feeling a smile forming on his lips at the sight. There are creases on Dean’s cheek from where the pillow pressed into his face and there is still sleep in Dean’s squinting eyes. There’s also an adorable pout on his soft, full lips, luring Castiel into a kiss. He doesn’t even try to resist the sweet temptation.

Dean hums happily, parting his lips without resistance, and Castiel pushes his tongue inside, lets himself be sucked into the wet heat of Dean’s eager mouth.

“How about we christen the bed?” Dean asks, mouth moving against Castiel’s jaw and downwards while his hands slip under Castiel’s t-shirt, trying to push it up with impatient tugs. It’s not very efficient.

“I’d like that,” Castiel agrees and pushes Dean away so he can take the shirt off and throw it on the floor, at which Dean opens his mouth as if to protest against having a mess made in his pristine, neat, insanely organized room. Castiel prevents that from happening by slipping one hand under the waistband of Dean’s boxers and cupping the hard, hot length of Dean’s cock.

“Fuck yeah,” Dean mutters and lifts up his hips so the boxers can be pulled down his legs and kicked off, also ending on the floor but luckily there are no hints of protest this time. Dean’s t-shirt and Castiel’s boxers are quickly removed too and nothing stands in the way of skin against skin anymore. The direct contact makes them both gasp and arch into each other, searching for more.

Castiel is just about to ask how this is going to go when Dean presses lube into his hand and shifts on the bed, rolling over until he's lying on his side, face away. It’s clearly one of his favorite positions, probably because of the strong sense of closeness it provides for both of them. Dean turns his head back, eyebrows cocked, lips curled into a provocative grin. “You okay with this?”

“More than okay.” He uncaps the bottle and starts preparing his partner.

Dean bends one leg at the knee, making more space for Castiel’s fingers, pushing back against them the moment they slip into him. His eyes flutter closed, thick eyelashes dark against his slightly flushed skin yet his skin pale against the shining dark red of his parted lips. “Hurry up, Cas. Want you in me,” he says, sounding hoarse and breathless already, and that’s just from two fingers. In an unexpected, inexplicable fit of hungry possessiveness, Castiel determines to make Dean scream before he’s done with him.

Dean is fucking himself on Castiel’s fingers (three now) and he’s making these small impatient, needy noises as he cants his hips back, wordlessly begging for more.

Then the noises get louder, even more desperate, when Castiel replaces his fingers with his cock. He’s doing his best to enter Dean slowly, with care, but Dean just keeps pushing back against him, taking him deeper and deeper. “Cas, please, stop fooling around. Move, goddamit!”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just snaps his hips forward sharply, making Dean yelp out. “Like this?”

A breathless chuckle. “Yeah, just like that.”

Castiel keeps his pace controlled, intent on driving Dean to the point where he’s completely inarticulate with need. He’s resting his weight on one elbow, head held high so he can watch Dean, all of him, as he slides his free hand down Dean’s strong, muscled back until he’s gripping at his waist firmly. He uses the leverage to deepen his thrusts, faster and almost violent now, and Dean is gritting his teeth, eyes squeezed shut and face contorted in a grimace that resembles pain but is in fact the exact opposite.

He can tell when Dean is getting close to his orgasm and that’s when he slows down, loosens his grip on Dean’s hip. “I’m not nearly done with you yet,” he growls into Dean’s ear and feels the full-body shiver that runs through his lover. “You don’t get to come until you scream for me so loud everyone in the bunker knows just what we are doing in here.”

“You kinky son of a bitch,” comes the shaky reply, “they know that already. They don’t need to hear it.”

“But they will.”

“Yeah, keep talking dirty like that and they just might.”

“I know.” Castiel slips one hand around Dean, sneaking up his chest until he finds a hard nipple. He tweaks the little nub between two fingers and Dean flinches, curses and moves into the touch. His body forms a perfect arch – head thrown back (spiky hair tickling Castiel’s face), ass pushing back to take Castiel in as deep as he can, heaving chest thrust out.

Castiel isn’t going to last long with a visual show like this, but he’s not giving up on his mission of hearing Dean scream either. He’ll just have to raise his game, and he’s already done this enough times to know how exactly he’s going to do that.

He speeds up his thrusts first, angling them so that he’s hitting Dean’s prostate almost every time, and immediately he’s rewarded with a new litany of curses. The cursing gets less inventive and more rambling when he starts sucking at Dean’s earlobe. He silences it for a while when he runs his thumbs over Dean’s slick, bitten mouth and Dean sucks the digit right inside, moaning around it, cheeks hollowed and lips puckered around it suggestively.

Castiel isn’t sure whether Dean’s doing it on purpose as a form of retaliation intended to strip away his self-control or not, but either way it’s working because suddenly he’s dangerously close, so close. He quickly withdraws the finger from Dean’s mouth, at which Dean whines discontentedly, and uses it to play with Dean’s nipples again, smearing the wet saliva there, circling, tweaking, pinching. “Touch yourself,” he orders and Dean obeys, wrapping one hand around his cock, pumping in rhythm with Castiel’s thrusts, once, twice, thrice, and then there it is – a hoarse, drawn-out scream, let out in a moment of complete abandon. Naked, raw, beautiful.

He follows Dean almost instantly, then collapses onto the bed, panting and exhausted and completely fine with the idea of not moving for the rest of the day.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes out and his body starts to shake with laughter. “They’re gonna throw us outta here for that.”

“They’re not.”

Dean rolls to his other side so he can look Castiel in the face without having to turn his head. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re going to make them those fluffy, heavenly pancakes for breakfast.”

Dean frowns. “ _I_ make them pancakes? That’s not fair. I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Exactly, you haven’t _done anything_ ,” Castiel nods and tries to hold back the smile that’s threatening to show up on his face. “I did all the hard work in bed, you go make us breakfast.”

“Hey!”

“And do the cleaning.” Castiel searches his memory for other stereotypes that he knows of, confident enough that Dean won't take offence like he probably would have some time ago. “Maybe bake a cake. Knit us some sweaters or something.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.” Dean’s attempt at sounding grumpy and sullen fails completely, a smile evident in his eyes.

*

Later, when they recover their strengths and get up, Dean does make the pancakes, although he makes Castiel help preparing them. The enticing smell soon lures Sam and Kevin into the kitchen. They both pile pancakes on their plates and join Castiel at the table while Dean makes more, encouraging everyone to eat because breakfast is the most important meal of the day and generally acting like the perfect mother hen he continuously denies being.

“These are awesome,” Kevin says, mouth full.

“Awesome,” Sam agrees, then asks, “Coffee?”

“Yeah,” Dean moves from the stove to place three mugs on the table and pours the dark, steaming liquid in them.

“Cas, did you choose him because he’s such a good housewife?” Sam asks. “Because if you did, I totally approve.”

“You watch your mouth, Sammy,” Dean points a spatula at his younger brother threateningly, eyes narrowed. He wields the tool like a weapon and Castiel has no doubt that he could cause some serious damage with it if he wanted. “Or I’m gonna whop your ass.”

“Really, Dean?” Sam raises his eyebrows and smiles innocently. “You sure you could take me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kevin joins the conversation. “Well, you’re walking a little funny. And then there was that screaming earlier. We’re concerned about you.”

Dean opens his mouth, glowers at Kevin, then at Sam – who’s giggling so hard he’s having trouble breathing – and finally at Castiel. “I hate you,” he tells to no one in particular and goes back to his pancakes.

Sam, Kevin and Castiel exchange knowing, amused glances, shrug and concentrate on the pancakes, because they truly are exceptional.

***

Christmas is coming.

To Castiel and all the other inhabitants of the bunker - or _Team Free Will 2.0_ , as Dean suggested calling them - it means two things mostly.

Firstly, as the “time of peace and love” approaches, more people tune in to listen to Reverend Boyle’s broadcast, open to the experience of saying yes to an angel. Aside from Buddy Boyle’s program under Bartholomew’s patronage, there is one other radio program and an internet group that are probably ran by the opposition, although there’s no way of telling which one belongs to Malachi and which one to Zerachiel. If Zerachiel hadn’t joined forces with Bartholomew already. About half of the potential vessels are killed before they have the chance to let the angels in and the other half succeeds, thus becoming mindless soldiers in Heaven’s pointless, bloody war.

The second, much less dismal result of the approaching Christmas time is Dean’s obsession with celebrating a proper Christmas at the bunker. He’s so completely focused on this mission that everything else is laid aside.

One day, Castiel looks up from the papers with Kevin’s notes on the translation of Metatron’s spell and he sees Dean grappling with a large pine tree, dragging it through the library. He shrugs and continues studying the notes and the next time he looks up, Dean is standing on a chair and decorating the tree with colorful stars and spheres and small little blinking lights.

“Why exactly are you so intent on doing this, Dean?” He asks when he can’t stand it anymore.

“Because,” Dean says, balancing on the edge of the chair as he’s trying to put a large plastic star on the top of the tree. “Where’s Sasquatch when you need him? Hey!” He raises his voice, hollering, “Sam, come here!”

Sam comes, slightly breathless as if he’s ran here. “What’s wro – oh,” he sighs and shakes his head. “Really, Dean?”

“Yes, really. C’mere, put that thing there.” Dean hands the plastic star to his brother and bends down to open a box full of more decorations, proceeding to hang them all over the bunker.

Another voice chimes in. “Wow.” Kevin is standing in the doorway, his eyes big and shining as he takes in the scenery before him. “We’re actually celebrating Christmas? With, like, presents and candy and eggnog?”

“Don’t forget the no working part,” Dean smirks at him and then he’s got his arms full of a very excited, jubilant Kevin Tran.

“This is awesome, we’re doing something normal for once. Thanks, Dean!” With one last hug and a joyful whoop, Kevin runs out of the room. It’s so far away from his usual behavior – focused, serious, working all the time – that it’s hard to believe he’s the same person.

Dean smiles at Sam and Castiel who just stand there, dumbfounded. “See? And _that_ ’s why we’re celebrating Christmas, you morons.”

They don’t have any more objections after that.

*

Castiel calls Nora and asks for a recipe for Christmas turkey and then Sam helps him go shopping for the ingredients.

Kevin and Dean keep strewing the bunker with more decorations until the whole place looks worse than a shopping mall, but they’re so happy and excited about it that Sam and Castiel keep their mouth shut and let them have their fun.

“I think I know why these two are so into it,” Sam tells Castiel in the evening, sitting next to him on a new, comfortable sofa that Dean proclaimed an early Christmas gift for everyone. It stands in the library in front of the decorated tree and it’s spacey enough that they all can sit there without feeling like sardines.

“Yes? Why?” Castiel takes the glass of whiskey from Sam, clinks it against Sam’s before taking a sip.

“It’s because they both remember having normal Christmas,” Sam says, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, sure, Dean was just a little kid, but still… He and Kevin had something you and I never did.”

“Until now,” comes Dean’s voice, soon followed by Dean himself as the man sinks into the sofa, snuggling up to Castiel and stealing his whiskey without remorse. “We’re here, and we’re together, and this? Is gonna be awesome.”

“I remember you saying that about Christmas before,” Sam objects but he’s smiling. “You remember Christmas 1989, Dean? Our dad’s heroic fight?”

Dean huffs out a breath. “Yeah, I remember.”

Feeling left out, Castiel nudges him in the ribs. “Care to share the memory?”

“That Christmas, I woke up and there was no tree, no presents,” Sam starts talking, “but there was a bruised, bloodied, passed out Dad on Dean’s bed.”

“He came back from a hunt gone wrong,” Dean interrupts Sam’s story to explain. “He barely made it through the door before he passed out, I had to practically drag him to the bed, then patch up his wounds…”

“Just so we’re clear, Dean was ten,” Sam cuts in on his brother.

“Let me talk, will you?” Dean throws an offended glance in Sam’s direction before continuing. “Anyway, Sam somehow managed to sleep through the whole show and when he woke up in the morning, looking for presents and stuff… I had to tell him something, right?”

“He told me dad didn’t bring us any presents because he got into a fight with a pack of bad wolves who attacked Santa’s reindeers,” Sam says, shaking his head. “He heroically fought them off and thus saved Christmas, but Santa's presents for us got ruined in the fight and so he had nothing for us.”

“And you believed that?”

Dean laughs and finishes Castiel’s whiskey. “You bet your ass he did! Hook, line and sinker! And that,” he says victoriously, “is how I saved Sammy’s Christmas!”

“And then you ruined it a couple years later when you told me Santa wasn’t real,” Sam grumbles.

“Well, don’t lose hope, little brother,” Dean proclaims dramatically as he pours himself another glass and hands another one to Castiel in place of the one he took from him before. “I also told you angels weren’t real and as you can see,” he plops back down next to Castiel on the sofa, patting Castiel’s leg cheerfully, “I was wrong. So, who knows?”

In fact, Castiel knows for sure that there is no such thing as Santa Claus, at least not in this commercially used form, but for the sake of the spirit of Christmas, he keeps that piece of information to himself.

*

On Christmas Day, the scents of pine, gingerbread, sugar cookies, cinnamon, pumpkin, apple, oranges and eggnog waft through the air in the bunker.

Dean and Kevin spend most of the day in the kitchen while Sam and Castiel just sort of hang around, lending a hand when asked but otherwise mostly staying out of the way. The dinner is delicious and Castiel makes a mental note to call Nora and thank her for the recipe.

Later, they move to the library, stand in front of the tree and try to sing _Silent Night_. It doesn’t go very well.

Then it’s time for presents. There’s not many of them since they don’t really have much money to spare, but they’re accepted with thanks and hugs and suspiciously teary eyes anyway. (The leather jacket Castiel’s picked out for Dean fits Dean perfectly. The high-quality coffee Sam gives Castiel makes him moan out loud in appreciation just at the incredible smell alone. Sam and Kevin both find memory foam mattresses in their rooms as Dean explains that he couldn’t let them live like Spartans anymore. Castiel is ushered into his and Dean’s room to find a simple yet elegant, handmade wooden bookcase standing by the wall, all his books already lined up on the shelves.)

They sit on the sofa after, drinking eggnog and watching old movies because as has been explained to Castiel, that’s what they’re supposed to do.

“I miss my mom,” Kevin says all of a sudden and before he has a chance to say anything more, he’s pulled into a hug by Sam who’s sitting next to him.

“I miss my mom too,” Dean says and exchanges a look with Sam. “And dad.”

“I miss Jess,” Sam adds.

“Bobby,” Castiel joins in.

More names come, some of them Castiel knows, some of them not. But the list is long.

They huddle closer together and remember the loved ones they lost.

*

A few hours later, when they’re still on the sofa and dozing while the TV is on, there’s a loud knock that echoes through the whole bunker.

Next to Castiel, Dean comes to full awareness instantly, freezes and listens, and Sam at the other end of the sofa does the same, straightening as he pricks up his ears.

The sound comes again, more insistent than the last time.

“Is that Crowley?” Kevin asks, worried.

“No, this is coming from the entrance door,” Castiel shakes his head. “It can’t be Crowley.”

“Are we expecting someone?” Dean asks and receives three headshakes from Sam, Castiel and Kevin alike.

“Maybe it’s Santa,” Sam makes an attempt at lightening the mood but his expression is serious.

“Maybe. I’m gonna go get my shotgun,” Dean stands up and jogs out of the room. The others follow him and soon they’re all armed to the teeth and standing in front of the door, ready to face whoever or whatever is on the other side.

Slowly, carefully, keeping as much distance as possible, Dean opens the door.

It’s not Santa Claus.

It’s a tall, well-built dark-haired man with a strong, square jaw and an eerily calm expression. He doesn’t attempt to enter and he raises his hands, palms out, showing his lack of weapons.

“Ezekiel?” Dean says, his posture relaxing minutely. He still keeps his shotgun trained at the man in front of him though.

“Yes,” the man says, nodding slowly. “It is me.”

Sam gasps and takes a hesitant step forward. “So you’re him.”

Dean puts one hand on Sam’s chest, pushing him back behind him. “So says he. The fact that he’s wearing the same guy as the first time I met him doesn’t mean it’s really Zeke.”

“It is me,” the man repeats, still very calm. He’s only wearing a dark hoodie and a light leather jacket, but he doesn’t appear to be affected by the cold weather outside. “I’m still one of the good guys, Dean.”

Dean smiles softly as if the words hold a special meaning to him but he still doesn’t seem completely convinced. “Really? Then tell me something only you would know.”

“You asked me to bring Castiel and Charlie Bradbury back from the dead and I did,” the man says, turning his attention to Castiel now. “Hello, brother. It’s good to see you.”

Castiel smiles and stretches out his hand. “Hello, Ezekiel.”

*

“So, what brings you here?” Dean asks when they’re back inside, in the library. They’re not comfortably sprawled on the sofa anymore though; they’re sitting around the table instead, watching their unexpected visitor with various levels of wariness and mistrust. Which is groundless, in Castiel’s opinion, but he’s been wrong before and so he keeps his thoughts to himself.

“I had several reasons for coming back here,” Ezekiel starts talking. “I believe the one reason you want to hear,” he looks at Dean, rightly treating him as the leader of the group, “is that I wish to offer you my help again.” He says it solemnly as his eyes travel from one face to another slowly. “I want to stop the war between the angels. I want to return to Heaven. I want to make sure Metatron is punished for what he’s done to us, to you…” His gaze pauses on Castiel for a moment. “I believe if anyone has a chance of doing any of that, it’s you. And I want to join you.”

Dean laughs, short and nervous, although he’s trying to hide it. “Wow, nice speech, Zeke. You trained it in front of a mirror?”

Ezekiel inclines his head to one side. “Why would I do that?”

Dean shakes his head. “Ah, never mind.” He looks at Sam, then at Kevin, and finally at Castiel. “Guys? What do you think?”

“Can we really trust him?” Kevin asks.

“I’ve had plenty of opportunity to betray you the first time I was here, Kevin Tran,” Ezekiel replies. He’s still remarkably calm. Castiel thinks that he must’ve been like that too, once, before he met the Winchesters and everything became so complicated. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already, don’t you think?”

“Ezekiel is a good soldier,” Castiel joins in and smiles slightly when Ezekiel gives him a small, grateful nod. “He has already proven his loyalty to our cause. I believe he deserves our trust.”

“I’m with Cas on this,” Dean offers his support although he’s looking almost surprised by it himself. “Zeke is one of the good guys. I say let him stay and help. We could use a pair of wings”

“Thank you.”

Dean raises one hand to stop Ezekiel. “But it’s not only up to me. Kev? Sam?”

Kevin doesn’t say anything, but he nods his head.

Sam is silent, clearly thinking about it. He hasn’t said a word since Ezekiel came in, but he’s been observing the angel very closely the whole time, completely fascinated with him. “You said you had more reasons for coming here. I want to hear them.”

The angel nods. “Yes, the main reason for my return was actually the unfinished business between you and me, Sam. After Dean told you about me, you overreacted… understandably so,” he adds hastily at Sam’s angry glare, “and you expelled me without giving me a chance to talk to you. This left a rift between us, a wound that is hurting us both and I believe it has to be fixed. So I came here to apologize for inhabiting your body without your consent. For violating your body and soul. I... came to make amends.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam’s tone is flat, his eyes cold as ice.

Ezekiel doesn’t let that deter him. “And I wanted to let you know that I’ve done both with the best intentions and in your best interest. I want you to understand that I am not a threat and I never was. If you wish, I will restore your memory; show you what’s been happening around you at the times when I took control.”

“How exactly is that gonna help me?”

“It might help you understand why Dean and I did what we did,” Ezekiel replies. “It might also take a great deal of worry off your shoulders if you saw nothing wrong’s been done while you were… absent.”

Sam thinks about it before nodding. “Okay. Let’s do that.”

“Right now?”

Sam stands up. “Yeah, I’d like that. And I’d like to do it in private,” he says, looking pointedly at Dean who was just starting to stand up too, waiting until Dean sits back down. He turns to Ezekiel then. “My room?”

“Very well,” Ezekiel doesn’t wait for Sam to lead the way, he knows where Sam’s room is just as well as Sam does.

When they’re gone, Dean exhales loudly. “Right. That was that.”

“It’s a shame it wasn’t Santa,” Kevin mutters and gets up. “But I guess a friendly angel isn’t that bad either.” He yawns. “Alright, guys. I guess I’m gonna crash.”

When he leaves, it’s only Castiel and Dean left in the library.

Dean yawns, then again.

“Why don’t you go to sleep too?” Castiel suggests. “I’ll stay here, wait for Ezekiel. I’d like to talk to him myself.”

Dean frowns, yawns again, frowns harder. “Okay. But don’t stay up all night, boys.” He begins walking away, then turns back, scratching at the back of his head. “Where are we gonna let Zeke sleep? Here, on the sofa?”

“He’s an angel, Dean,” Castiel reminds him. “He doesn’t need to sleep.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, right.”

There’s something Castiel’s been meaning to ask for a long time now. “Dean? Why do you use those nicknames? _Cas_ instead of Castiel, _Zeke_ instead of Ezekiel, _Zach_ instead of Zachariah… Is that so you can get hold of what is alien and strange to you? Does giving things or people names make you feel like you have some amount of power over them?” Because that’s a well-known concept. Knowing someone’s name or giving him one yourself is extremely important in practically all human cultures.

Dean’s eyebrows are scrunched together. “What? No, nothing like that. Come on.”

“Then why?”

Dean shrugs. “’Cause it’s shorter.”

Castiel chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ll never cease to amaze me. I never know what to expect of you.”

“That’s a compliment, right?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, it better be,” Dean grins, gives Castiel a quick kiss goodnight and leaves.

*

It’s several hours later when Ezekiel finally returns to the library.

“Sam went to sleep?” Castiel asks.

“Yes.” Ezekiel pulls up a chair and sits down, the table between him and Castiel. “I hoped I might still find you here.”

Castiel nods. “I thought so. You wanted to speak to me, brother. So speak.”

The angel clasps his hands together and rests them on the table. “I wanted to apologize, Castiel.”

It’s strangely nice to hear his full name. Not that there’s anything wrong with _Cas_ , especially when it's fervently whispered by one specific pair of perfectly shaped, plump lips, but hearing the full name makes Castiel feel almost as if he was still an angel, it’s an echo of a lost life. Not a life he wishes to regain, but still, some amount of nostalgia is surely understandable.

Ezekiel takes Castiel’s silence as an encouragement to keep talking. “After the Fall… I was injured. Badly.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. Many others fared much worse. Many died.”

Castiel hangs his head. He’s glad Dean isn’t here for this talk, he would only try to offer comfort and consolation, say something about how none of this was Castiel’s fault, like he does every time Metatron’s spell and its consequences are mentioned. “I am sorry,” he repeats.

“You trusted the wrong person when you wanted to help,” Ezekiel says, appearing sincere if one could judge from his very meagre range of expressions. “You've been tricked. That is not a crime. Your intentions were good, brother. You have nothing to be ashamed for. Unlike me.”

“How so?”

“When I was in Sam,” the angel explains, looking embarrassed, eyes cast down. “This… the human body, the emotions… it was all too new for me. Fear got the better of me, I was too scared for my own life and so I told Dean to send you away.”

“My presence posed a risk to both you and Sam,” Castiel protests.

“True,” Ezekiel agrees, “but not as much as I said it did. I think I probably would’ve been able to protect all of us if the need arose. But I was afraid, I wanted to be sure I was safe, so I lied and drove you away.” He sighs. “I should have been braver, more selfless. And I will be,” he promises, his gaze directed firmly on Castiel. “You have my word.”

Castiel smiles. “That’s enough for me.” Because it is.

“You are too generous, brother,” Ezekiel bows his head. “Thank you for your trust. I will not fail you again.”

“I know.”

“I also think I know a way how to repay you your kindness.” The angel offers a tentative smile. “Your Grace has been destroyed, am I correct?”

“It was used to power Metatron’s spell, yes.” Castiel isn’t sure where this is going.

“I’ve given this a lot of thought. To become an angel again, maybe you could use another angel’s Grace. As I said, many have died in the Fall, their Graces are scattered all over this Earth.”

Castiel frowns, tensing. “Who said I want to be an angel again?”

Not it’s Ezekiel’s turn to frown. “I supposed…”

“I don’t want that kind of power anymore,” Castiel says, voicing for the first time what’s been on his mind for weeks. He hasn’t even told Dean about this yet. “The more power I had, the more damage I caused. I am content the way I am now. I do not wish to have that much responsibility again.”

“But…” Ezekiel seems to be sincerely confused and surprised by this turn of events. “We… we hoped you’d help us. Lead us again.”

“Who is _we_?”

“On my way here, I met several angels, and I overheard many more in my head. Not all of them wish to follow Bartholomew or Malachi. There are some that still believe in you, Castiel. In what you represent. I believe they would follow you if you called them.”

For a long time, Castiel is silent. He hasn’t even thought about this, the idea that there are some who still find his judgment reliable and credible is absurd. Wrong. Dangerous. “I am not that angel anymore,” he says finally.

“But if we succeed in reopening Heaven…”

“I will stay here nevertheless,” he says firmly. “With my friends. My family.”

“Castiel, _we_ are your family. We are your flesh, your blood.”

He smiles even though he feels sadness. “I know. But family doesn’t end with blood. I will stay here. With them. With Dean.”

Ezekiel looks like he wants to keep arguing, but then something he must’ve seen in Castiel’s face makes him change his mind. “I understand.”

Castiel is thankful that he’s not being pressured anymore. “I’m sorry I can’t be who you need me to be. If the angels want to fight without compromising themselves, they’ll need to find someone else to lead them.”

“Who?” Ezekiel asks.

Castiel doesn’t reply, staring at the angel meaningfully.

Ezekiel tilts his head to one side in wonder. “Me?”

“Why not?”

The angel shakes his head. “I’m a soldier, Castiel. I’m used to following orders, not giving them. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“You can learn. We will help.”

Ezekiel shakes his head again. “I don’t think I could do that.”

Reaching out, Castiel places one hand on top of Ezekiel’s and squeezes. It is a gesture of comfort and support that he’s learned from Dean. “Of course, you don’t have to. All I’m saying is that I believe you would be good at the job. Just think about it, will you?”

The angel nods.

*

When Castiel gets to their room, he can tell immediately that Dean isn’t sleep. He’s not very surprised. Ezekiel's arrival could change a lot of things.

“How’d it go?” Dean asks, rolling over so he can watch Castiel undress.

“We had several topics to discuss.” Castiel slips under the covers, the warmth of the bed very relaxing, the touch of Dean’s hands even more so.

“Like what?”

Castiel tells Dean about Ezekiel’s apology and about the angels willing to follow a peaceful leader, even about suggesting Ezekiel as the said leader – at which Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t really seem to be that much against it – but he doesn’t mention the possibility of becoming an angel again. He doesn’t believe it’s doable anyway, and even if it was, he would refuse it, so there’s no reason for Dean to know about it.

“Huh,” Dean says when Castiel is finished. “So there are some friendly angels left. Maybe we have a chance after all.”

Castiel doesn’t feel that optimistic; from what Ezekiel’s told him the numbers of those angels are quite small, but he’s seen the Winchesters do the impossible before, so he just nods and snuggles up against Dean’s larger, stronger body, resting his head on Dean’s chest. “Maybe.”

Dean hums contentedly, his body pleasantly vibrating with the sound, and wraps his arm around Castiel. “Okay, that was enough serious talk for today. So, how did you like your first Christmas?”

Castiel considers the question. “I… enjoyed that you enjoyed it so much.”

“That’s all?”

“The dinner was very tasty.”

“Still not good enough. Come on, Cas!”

Castiel thinks about Dean’s expression when he unwrapped his new jacket. “I liked giving presents. And receiving them, too,” he adds after a thought as his eyes land on the bookshelf that now stands in the room. “When did you make that?”

“Oh, that?” Dean shrugs. “I started making it soon after we got together. I realized you’d come back here one day and I didn’t want you to keep your books in piles on the floor like Bobby did. No mess in my room allowed.”

“ _Our_ room.”

“Sorry. Our room,” Dean corrects himself.

“And don’t you forget it.”

Dean chuckles, pulls Castiel even closer and plants a kiss on his temple. “Never.”

“Good.”

Soon after that, Castiel lets his eyes fall closed; Dean’s regular breathing lulling him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's kind of spoilery, but I wanted to make this clear anyway: Ezekiel is Ezekiel, not Gadreel. He's a good guy in my story because if I got tired of one thing on SPN, it's how all the angels are dicks except for Cas (or if they're good, they die). And also, I really like Tahmoh Penikett :-)
> 
> On another note, I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The peaceful days of Christmas are over, the war is back.
> 
> Warnings: (not very graphic) torture in this chapter.

In the morning following Ezekiel’s arrival, Dean is a little bit nervous about facing Sam. After all, Sam apparently talked for _hours_ last night with Ezekiel and there’s no telling what exactly the angel’s told him. It might be good – it _should_ be good – but it might also be bad, it might destroy the precarious truce between the brothers, the friendship and trust that is only slowly being rebuilt, one careful step at a time.

Yeah, right, Ezekiel said last night that having that talk with Sam should help mend their wounds, but he was talking about him and Sam then, not about Dean and Sam. Dean hadn’t realized that last night, but he wakes up in the morning with a growing pool of dread in his stomach, unable to stop thinking about all the ways things could go wrong between him and Sam again.

“You can’t keep hiding here forever,” Cas tells him, standing by the door, leaning against the wall, arms crossed on his chest and a slightly amused smile playing on his lips.

Dean looks around the room, searching for excuses to stay. Damn him and his neatness, now there’s nothing to clean, nothing to fix, nothing to keep him here.

“Dean. Let’s go.”

Sighing, Dean resigns and follows Cas outside and down to the kitchen where Ezekiel is serving coffee while chatting with Kevin about cuneiform, both looking very excited at the topic. Sam is there, too, sitting at the table and eating a toast with a somewhat bored expression. When he notices Dean in the doorway, he sits up straighter, puts his unfinished toast down and stands up. “Dean? Can we talk?”

Oh hell. This is it. Things are going to go south again. Dean mentally braces himself for the inevitable and lets Sam lead him to the library, in front of the Christmas tree. How fucking ironic.

He takes a deep breath, meets Sam’s eyes. “Alright, just spill it out.”

“Spill what out?”

“Well… I don’t know. Whatever.”

Sam frowns in confusion and shrugs. “Ezekiel showed me what happened in that hospital in New York before he possessed me.”

“And you don’t wanna punch me in the face?” This isn’t really making much sense.

Sam shakes his head. “Actually, no. I kinda wanna hug you.”

Dean gapes. Maybe he’s finally lost his marbles completely. That would explain this.

“He showed me his memory of what happened, Dean,” Sam keeps on talking. “You were so devastated…" Grief creeps into his voice. "God, I don’t want you to ever have to go through anything like that again.”

Dean laughs nervously. “You and me both.”

Sam nods, clears his throat. “He also showed me what happened when he took you into my head. How you persuaded me to let him in.” He pauses, thinking. “I saw what happened. You asked me to keep fighting, you told me you’d help.”

“And?” Because Dean knows all that, he’s gone over it in his mind probably every single day since it actually happened.

“And I said yes. Without asking how exactly you were gonna help me. I could’ve asked, you know?” Sam stuffs his large hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching. “I knew there was something fishy about it, there had to be. And I could’ve asked about it but I didn’t, I just trusted you and let you do it.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean starts apologizing again. He’ll say it a thousand times, a million if need be.

“I know,” Sam waves it off impatiently, “and that’s not my point.”

“So what is?”

“You were right. I wanted to live, somewhere deep, deep down, I still wanted to. And so I didn’t ask what you were planning to do to save me because if I didn’t ask, if I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have to stop you, wouldn’t have to say no.”

“And?” Dean is still waiting for the inevitable “but”, for the other shoe to drop, for things to get ugly between him and Sam again.

What Sam says though is absolutely unexpected though: “You tricked me into saying yes because I wanted to be tricked.”

Dean thinks about it until he’s sure he gets it. “And does that make it okay?” _Please say yes_.

Sam shakes his head. “No, not okay, just... easier to bear, I guess. You’re not the only guilty party in this, I was your accomplice. So if I wanna be pissed at you, I should also be pissed at myself.”

“Can’t you just _not_ be pissed at anyone instead?” Dean tries his luck.

“Yeah. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Sam smiles sheepishly, dimples and downcast eyes and floppy hair, Dean’s little Sammy, always his little Sammy. “I’m putting this behind us. For good.”

Dean wants to say _yes, God yes_ , and _thank you_ , but he can’t let it go that easily. “You sure?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dean, I’m sure. In fact, I, uh… I’ve got something for you.” He pulls out a small packet and hands it to Dean. “Go on. Unwrap it.”

“A gift?” This is getting weirder and weirder. Dean tears the Christmas-themed wrapping paper impatiently, gasps loudly when he sees what’s inside. This can’t be. He hasn’t seen this in… what, almost five years?

“I kept it after you threw it out,” Sam says, sounding flustered, nervous. “Don’t know why, but I couldn’t just leave it in that trash can.”

Dean is still staring at the amulet, unable to tear his eyes off it. “But…” Is all he manages to get out. This can’t be.

“Back then, you threw it away because you didn’t believe in what it represented. You didn’t believe in us.” Sam’s voice is trembling a little, betraying his emotions. The memory still hurts them both. It always will. “So now I’m giving it back to you. Because I want to believe in us again. I _do_ believe in us.” He licks his lips and swallows uneasily, meeting Dean’s eyes. “Do you?”

“Sammy,” Dean chokes out, his dry throat not cooperating with him fully but that’s okay because he doesn’t know what to say anyway, so he raises his shaking hands instead and puts the amulet on. As its familiar weight settles on his chest, it feels the same kind of _right_ as leaning in for a kiss from Cas or slipping behind Baby’s wheel and looking to his right, seeing Sam by his side or wrapping his hand around the handle of his 1911. It feels like things are where they’re supposed to be.

“Sammy,” he repeats, and when he looks up, he sees his teary eyes reflected in Sam’s equally tearful ones. “I… thank you.” He wants to say more, say how he’ll never let Sam down again, but he can’t get the words past his lips.

Sam smiles like he knows. “Yeah. C’mere.”

They hug, Sam’s strong, large, muscled arms locked tight around Dean’s shoulders and Dean realizes that this feels different than the hugs they’ve had in the past year or so (and it’s funny how many times they’ve hugged lately). Sam’s gaining muscle weight again, looking healthier and fitter every day, like he’s finally getting over the Trials and the whole near-death experience, like he’s finally back to full strength. Which has its drawbacks. “Can’t breathe.”

“Oh.” Sam lets go, takes a step back and clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“’S okay,” Dean claps him on the shoulder, hard, to make up for the chick flick moment before. “Being crushed to death by my overgrown younger brother is definitely one of the better ways to go.”

“Totally.” Sam is looking at the amulet on Dean’s chest, a shy yet happy smile playing on his face. Dean touches the piece of metal and smiles back.

“Hey, Sam, you noticed something?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s kinda funny how we’ve been acting so mature lately, you know, talking about things instead of ignoring them until they get out of hand, that kind of stuff.” It’s a new thing for them and so far it seems to be working pretty well.

Sam shrugs. “Must be the age. We’re getting wiser.”

“Wiser,” Dean repeats, attempting to keep a straight face, to appear all respectable and responsible. “Right. That’s me.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but his raised eyebrows and the twitching of his lips expresses all his doubts about Dean’s newly gained wisdom better than any words could. He’s got that _I can’t believe this person is actually my brother but somehow I love him anyway_ expression, which is one of Dean’s favorite, right there at the top with the likes of _I can’t believe my brother put Nair in my shampoo_ and _Dean, would you please stop acting like a five-year old_.

Yeah. Things are getting back to normal.

***

Things are not back to normal. In fact, in some respect they’re probably the farthest from normal they’ve ever been.

See, the thing is, Dean isn’t really used to having so many people around him all the time. His whole life, he’s never lived for a longer period of time with more than two people at maximum. There was Sam and Dad when Dean was younger, then Ben and Lisa during Dean’s year off, Benny and Cas in Purgatory, and finally Sam and Kevin in the bunker.

But now? There’s Sam and Kevin and Cas and Zeke, and that’s too many people and too little silence, too little personal space, too little privacy. There’s always someone around, always someone talking, walking, cooking, eating, reading, sparring… Just too many someones.

And even though they are all good people that Dean loves – even Zeke, the noble winged son of a bitch – he’s also getting allergic to them or the things that they do, small things that haven’t bothered him before but he can’t stand now.

Kevin keeps leaving dirty dishes behind him wherever he is and the “music” (note the ironical air quotes here) he plays when he’s translating is hurting Dean’s soul. And ears.

Zeke keeps making a mess of the kitchen during his cooking experiments (because he insists on being useful) and also he keeps staring at Dean – or anyone who’s around, really – very intensely, which combined with his typical-for-angels lack of respect of personal space really bugs Dean.

Sam is just generally too big and he should really cut his hair because yesterday, Dean found some in his soup, and that’s not okay at all.

Cas is being so understanding and supportive and he always wears that _I’m listening, you can talk to me_ expression that makes Dean feel like he’s talking to a psychiatrist and that pisses him off.

On top of everything else, Zeke and Cas have turned the bunker into a telephone exchange for the slowly, tentatively growing number of angels who want to help. The fact that it’s been decided it’s for the best that the angels stay away from the bunker for now is a small miracle.

And there’s no discipline. No order of things. Dean thinks that would help, turning the bunker into a military-type base camp, with fixed, hard-set schedule and clearly defined duties. But apparently that’s impossible. Trying to establish order to their little motley crew is like trying to… well, a witty analogy should come here, but Dean’s too damn wired and tired to come up with one.

So yeah, maybe his complaints are a bit irrational, but there’s apparently nothing he can do about it. He is irritable and quick-tempered and he’s having trouble controlling himself and he needs to get out before this situation drives him crazy. He’s slowly – but not really slowly at all – getting claustrophobic, ready to blow. And when he blows, it's never nice.

“I just feel like I’m gonna put a fist through a wall soon,” he tells Cas when they’re in the bunker’s gym, sitting on the ground and resting after a sparring session that only slightly helped reduce Dean’s ever-growing need to punch something. Someone. Anything. Anyone. He knows that’s not alright, he just can’t help it. “I’m not used to having that much company.”

“For me, it is the exact opposite,” Cas says, surprising Dean.

“How come?”

Cas takes a long pull on the bottle of water they’re sharing, head thrown back and throat working as he swallows, lips wrapped around the neck. It’s a suggestive view and Dean’s cock stirs in his pants, but he ignores it and waits for Cas to continue talking. “When I was cast out of the Heavenly Host I lost the connection to my brothers and sisters. I was completely alone, and in a way I still am.”

Dean frowns. “You’re not alone, Cas.”

“Not in the way you’d perceive it,” Cas nods and offers Dean a slightly sad smile. “I know I have friends, and I have you… But it’s different from being connected to the Host. When you’re connected, you’re never alone, you’re a part of something bigger. You can always sense the presence of countless others, of your fellow soldiers and friends.” He sighs, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. “Losing that connection… it hurt much more than losing my powers.”

Grimacing, Dean thinks about it before asking what he knows is a stupid question, “You still miss it a lot?”

“I miss the company, the sense of belonging,” Cas admits readily and Dean is thankful he’s not attempting to lie, to hide it. “But I don’t miss the power, the responsibility. I wouldn’t want to get it back even if I could. Like I said, I have friends here and I have you. I have my place in the world now. I don’t want my old life back.”

Dean has a feeling there’s more behind those words and once he’s thinking more clearly he’ll have to ask Cas about it, try to make him open up, pry it out of him. But not now. Right now, he needs to get out, get some fresh air, clear his head.

He wishes they’d find a hunt, something simple and violent; a nest of vampires or a pack of werewolves would be absolutely perfect. But aside from the angel killings that still go on, there’s not much supernatural activity going on, which is a real shame. Investigating dead angelic vessels doesn’t exactly allow Dean to let off much steam.

He’s not proud of this side of his personality, but after Purgatory, he’s at least learned to accept it. There’s this undercurrent of violence in him, a hungry beast that has to be fed regularly or it’ll break loose from its chains and bite and claw at anything within its reach. And the strain of too much company has made the beast restless, bloodthirsty.

Dean has to get out or something bad is going to happen. A couple of hours on his own to get the beast back under control.

Standing up, he says, “I’m gonna go take Baby for a ride.”

Castiel stands up too. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No offence, but not now. I need some time alone, okay? Just a few hours on my own.”

Cas watches him with a slightly worried yet still understanding expression. “Just be careful.”

“You know me.”

A sigh. “Yes, that’s the problem.”

*

This is Heaven.

The open highway, Baby purring like a cat enjoying her belly rub, Aerosmith’s _Walk on Water_ blasting through the speakers, ear-splitting loud.

“God, I’ve missed you, girl,” Dean tells her and the way she responds eagerly to his every command tells him she’s missed him too.

He steps on the gas and she speeds up, flying down the highway that leads to who the fuck cares.

Baby roars and Dean laughs.

*

The rush of excitement recedes gradually after the first half an hour or so, adrenaline back to normal, breathing calming down, pulse slowing.

This, when he’s coming down from a high – after a good fight or after a good fuck or just from sitting behind the wheel like now – is when Dean starts to really relax and let go, this is when he’ll marshal his thoughts, find his composure and calm, become centered again.

And he’ll be nice to the others when he gets back to the bunker, he’ll behave himself, be patient and understanding and all that. And then they’ll finally get things moving on the angel front, fix what’s wrong, and then they’ll sit back, enjoy a couple of cold ones and watch the world get back to normal.

Yeah. That’s what they’re gonna do.

Dean nods to himself, satisfied and gaining confidence with each mile that Baby swallows, steady as she goes.

He stops for coffee later, returns the pretty young waitress’s smile with a playful wink, sits back and savors the hot liquid’s bitter taste.

The waitress with the flirty smile comes back, refills his cup without being asked, an exaggerated sway to her hips as she walks away, and Dean grins because it’s nice to know he’s still got it.

He thinks about getting up and heading back to the car, but he doesn’t really want to move and the waitress is back again, another smile and another cup of coffee, and when Dean wants to thank her the words come out slurred and that’s when he realizes something’s wrong, tries to pull out his gun from the waistband of his jeans but his body doesn’t obey his hazed mind’s commands.

The last thing he sees is the waitress standing above him, the coffee in the pot she’s holding as black as her eyes.

Fuck.

*

And fuck again, he thinks when he comes to, tied to a solid chair in some poor bastard’s living room and looking at a face he hoped he’d never see again.

“Hello, lover,” Abaddon’s red-painted lips curve into a sensuous yet cold smile. “We meet again.”

“F’k you,” he croaks out and tries to lick his parched lips, tongue moving slowly and clumsily in his mouth.

The demon laughs. “Very tempting. But I have a better idea.” She saunters closer until she’s standing right in front of him, bends down, hands resting on Dean’s wrists tied to the armrests and gripping painfully tight, the plunging neckline of the black t-shirt she’s wearing giving Dean quite a view as she leans even closer, her face mere inches from his. “We have some unfinished business between us, Dean.”

“Yeah? Whassthat?”

She kneels between his spread legs and lets her hands travel up his arms, over his shoulders and to the collar of his shirt, tearing at the cloth and revealing the anti-possession tattoo hidden under it. “I think you know.”

He swallows uneasily and tries to keep his expression calm, disinterested, and hopes it’s working. The truth is he’s been thinking about this ever since she made that threat the last time they met, he’s woken up screaming countless times, the nightmarish vision of his body being used against his will scaring him more than he'd like to admit.

She can’t do this to him. Not this.

“Nervous, lover?” She sneers.

He should probably come up with a witty answer but since he’s got nothing, he just glares at her. _She can’t do this._

Abaddon smiles at him, fake compassion. “Don’t you worry, it’ll all be over soon.” Without taking her eyes off his face – looking for signs of fear? well, guess it’s her lucky day today – she holds out one hand, palm up, and one of her minions who stand attentively all around the room scurries to hand her a knife. His own damn knife.

“You don’t want to do this,” he says, his voice steadier now, whatever he’s been dosed with probably wearing off. “I’m not really that pretty, not a perfect vessel. Why not stay in the redhead?”

“I like you better,” she replies and stands up just so he has to tilt back his head to look at her, and then she straddles him, grinding down against him. (And seriously, why are all the bad guys always so keen on threatening Dean with sexual abuse? He’s not some fucking damsel in distress, for Christ’s sake!) “Much better.” She puts one hand on his chest to push him into the backrest, hold him still, as she draws the blade closer to the tattoo.

Dean fights her even though he knows it’s pointless, tries to struggle, tries to break free and she sighs, rolls her eyes and immobilizes him with those pesky demon powers until he can’t move a muscle in his body down from the head. _She can’t do this._

“Ready?” She asks, the tip of the blade lightly touching his skin.

 _She can’t do this_. Dean closes his eyes and prays that he’s right.

The sharp, quick cut she makes across his flesh makes him jerk and grunt, but it’s more with surprise than with pain. He looks down and sees a thin, red line splitting the tattoo in two.

The knife lands on the floor, forgotten, and Abaddon chuckles low in her throat, runs her fingers through the blood that wells up from the cut, brings the bloodied fingers to Dean’s lips and smears the warm liquid around, keeping his mouth open with fingers pressing at his jaw as she applies this gruesome lipstick. “I look good in red.”

And then she opens her mouth, black smoke curling out and slipping into him.

Nothing happens.

 _She can’t do this_. Dean throws his head back and laughs.

The black smoke recedes back into Abaddon’s original meatsuit, the almost lifeless body of a hot redhead coming to life again, black returning to her eyes as she stands up, screams in rage and backhands Dean across the face so hard he sees stars. “How?”

“Surprise,” he says when he’s done laughing, spits blood from a split lip and offers her a cocky grin. “I’m off limits, bitch.”

“You have another tattoo,” she growls and begins ripping the rest of his shirt off, looking for more ink.

Dean shakes his head. “It’s all over my bones,” he tells her before she can get any further with undressing him. “Carved all into them.” Right along with the Enochian sigils from Cas; they all have them, it’s a late Christmas gift from Ezekiel, and a damn useful one. “You can’t have me.”

She stops tearing at his clothes, her expression going cold and calculating as she watches him, lips pursed in thought. “Well, that was a disappointment.”

“Not what ladies usually say to me,” he retorts, back in the saddle now that he knows the protection really works. “But then, you’re no lady.”

He expects another backhand, or something even more violent, but she just stands there, watches him until the grin dies on his lips. “I don’t need to possess you to learn where you’re hiding Crowley,” she says finally and again, she’s holding his mouth open with one superstrong hand, fingers digging into his jaw. “All I have to do is take a peek at your memories, sweetheart. Did your angel friend remember to protect you from that?”

And just like that, Dean’s back to _oh fuck_ again.

Abaddon parts her lips and lets a thin ribbon of smoke curl out of her mouth and into his.

 _Snap_.

The scenery changes.

He’s standing on a mound covered in tall green grass that ripples with the wind, the same wind that chases the large, fluffy clouds under the dark, steel blue-grey sky.

The mound is entrenched and surrounded with a palisade fence, and there’s a tall, sturdy, closed gate.

In front of it Abaddon, banging on the wood with her fist, the blows so powerful that the whole structure shakes under them. “Dean,” she shouts loud over the howling wind, her hair flying around her face like a fiery halo, “this isn’t over! I’ll get to you even if I have to tear these walls down with my bare hands!”

Dean understands the threat. If she gets through the gate, she’ll be able to look into his head, read his memories. Find the bunker. Find Sam and Cas and Kevin.

He can’t let her do that. He looks around, searching for weapons, for anything to use against her, anything to fight back, but the grass-covered mound offers nothing.

Bang, bang, bang on the gate.

“I’m coming for you, Dean!” She shouts.

“No, you’re not,” says a voice Dean hasn’t heard in years, then another voice adds, “we’re not letting you.”

From his vantage point at the top of the mound, he can see two figures appear in front of the gate, facing the demon. Mary Winchester and Lisa Braeden, the mother he’s lost too soon and the mother of a child that could’ve been his.

He wants to shout at them, tell them to run and hide, but he can’t open his mouth, can’t make a sound as they both move, Mary wielding a long blade and Lisa the shotgun Dean left in her closet.

Abaddon crushes them both with no visible effort at all, laughs as she steps over the bodies. “Are you kidding me, Dean?”

“Shut up, you bitch,” another familiar voice growls, deep and gruff, and John Winchester moves from the gate to face her, his walk as steady as the aim of his gun. Bobby Singer is by his side, silent but just as steady, just as resolved.

But Dean knows how it’s going to end even before it happens.

Laughing like this is fun for her, Abaddon snaps Bobby’s neck first, then puts her fist through John’s chest, pulling it out bloody and watching the body slump into the grass. “Unimpressive.”

“How about this?” And that’s Castiel, Angel of the Lord, wearing the trench coat and the messy bedroom hair and the span of his wings is larger than Dean remembers.

“You will not get him.” That’s Sam Winchester, tall and proud, seeming larger than in real life, and his hand is empty when he raises it towards her, palm out, power radiating from him in waves.

Abaddon looks vaguely impressed. “Well, that’s something. But not enough to harm a Knight of Hell. Not in here, anyway.”

Cas’s wings burst into flames, and he burns. Sam’s body hits the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

This isn’t real, Dean knows that, but there are still tears slipping down his cheeks, quickly cooling in the sharp wind.

Abaddon looks up at him, standing in the middle of the carnage and bloodshed. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“No,” says Dean Winchester, standing in front of the gate, careful to keep his back covered as he watches the surprise on her face. “There’s still me. And I’m not letting you in.” He’s gripping his Colt in one hand, Ruby’s knife in the other, and he feels confident, strong, knows that she can’t take him because after all, this is _his_ mind, his playground. “Now get the fuck out of my head.”

She frowns, shakes her head. “You can’t–“

“Get. Out.”

 _Snap_.

The scenery changes.

He’s back in that living room, in that chair, tied up and vulnerable, but undefeated.

*

Once Abaddon is done raging, she orders her minions to take Dean downstairs. Downstairs turns out to be a surprisingly spacious basement room, empty except for the heavyweight manacles hanging from the ceiling and another pair chained to the concrete floor, a comfortable-looking wing chair in one corner and an old, closed cabinet in the other.

Dean tries struggling when the demons raise his wrists to the cuffs, but in the end it doesn’t matter, they overpower him easily and leave him standing there, chained up and defenseless. Like he hasn’t had enough of this shit in his life already.

Abaddon chooses that moment to stroll into the room, looking much more composed than before, determined and intent again. “Change of plans, Dean. You won’t let me have your body? Fine. I’ll rip it apart.” She’s playing with a knife again, fingertip running up and down the sharp edge as she smirks at him. “And I’ll get Crowley anyway.”

“It took thirty years for Alastair to break me,” he sneers, the words said with pride, not shame anymore, because he’s slowly come to realize that the amount of time he lasted in the Pit is actually so epic it’s almost ridiculous. “And he could kill and revive me over and over again, nothing like the primitive conditions you have here. You really think you can get me to talk?”

“No, lover,” she agrees, surprising him. She pulls out Dean’s phone from her pocket. “I know you’re not going to crack. But your brother is, when he sees you. All I have to do is hurt you enough so he’ll give me Crowley and the address to your secret hideout himself.”

“An exchange? Sam’ll never agree to that.” And neither will Cas. There’s too much at stake here, especially with the Men of Letters bunker, that place has to remain a secret from monsters like Abaddon.

“We’ll see about that,” she shrugs and puts the phone away, back to playing with the knife now. “Once I send him some pictures, show him how you’re doing… who knows, maybe he’ll change his mind.”

“He won’t,” Dean opposes, he’s sure about that and maybe if he convinces Abaddon too, she’ll just kill him quickly. He’s no stranger to pain, it even holds some kind of familiarity for him, but that doesn’t mean it’s something he’d necessarily want to go through. Oh shit, who is he kidding here? He's fucking _terrified_.

“We’ll see about that,” she repeats. “And now, since you’ve been so disappointing so far, how about you scream for me real pretty?”

But despite the threat, she doesn’t start the torture right away. She’s too good for that, a professional – it takes one to know one, Dean thinks with a bitter half-smile.

In many aspects, torture is just like sex. The act itself is quite simple, primitive even, just biological, physical reactions of the human body. It’s the atmosphere, the mood, the foreplay, that makes it really work.

Just like there’s anticipation in slowly stripping in front of a lover, taking off one item of clothing after another to reveal the naked skin beneath, there’s the same anticipation in doing the same in front of an enemy.

Abaddon knows that, and she takes her sweet time cutting away Dean’s clothes, running her manicured fingers across his body as it’s slowly being exposed, chuckling every time he involuntarily jerks or tenses under her touch.

She takes just as much time showing him the tools she has ready for him, letting his imagination run wild, his memories of Hell easily supplying him with enough images to make him break out into a cold sweat, Dean’s body remembering the never-ending agonies too well, too vividly for him to stay calm, no matter how hard he tries.

He’s almost relieved when she finally stops teasing and gets down to work.

Almost.

*

The bitch is good, Dean has to give her that. Not Alastair good, and she doesn’t have the luxury of not having to worry whether he’ll survive, she has to keep him alive as long as she possibly can, so she has much less leeway, can’t be as drastic as she’d probably want to, can’t cut too deep, can’t break too much.

It’s still more than enough to make him scream though.

*

As far as Dean can tell, they’re a couple of hours into their session when Abaddon decides he looks wretched and miserable enough to be presentable.

She pulls out his phone again – it’s rung several times already but so far she’s ignored it – , circles him with assessing eyes, takes several pictures, and sends them to Sam’s number.

Sam calls her back immediately and just as soon as she answers the call, Dean can hear his brother’s angry, scarily threatening voice. He can’t make out the words but he thinks he gets the general picture.

Abaddon just laughs, waits until Sam’s finished, and gives him her conditions. “You give me Crowley and the Men of Letters hideout and I’ll give you your brother back.”

“Sammy, don’t!” Dean shouts, voice hoarse from all the screaming. “Don’t give her any-mpffh!” One of the demon minions gags him after that.

Abaddon rolls her eyes at his attempt, finishes talking to Sam with a “Clock's ticking, kid,” and ends the call. She turns her attention to Dean again after that, removes the gag from his mouth. “He wasn’t very cooperative.”

“Told you.”

She fists one hand in his hair, pulling until it hurts. “Don’t worry. We’ve only just begun.”

*

At least nine hours have passed since Abaddon’s started. Dean knows that because she takes new pictures of her handiwork carved and burned into his skin every two hours and sends them to Sam.

She seems to be enjoying the taking pictures part as much as the torturing part. She makes the demons bring her several lights and fiddles with them until she deems Dean perfectly illuminated, like some fucking artwork in a gallery.

The bitch is also really good at keeping the perfect balance between agony and agony so great you lose consciousness. She never lets him pass out, never lets him escape. She even cleans his wounds from time to time, gives him water to keep him hydrated and antibiotics to prevent infection and fever. Like this, she’ll have much more time to play.

And Dean is just so tired. Welcoming darkness is swimming all around him but it never gets close enough for him to get lost in it.

“Hey!” A stinging slap and Abaddon staring at him. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“Maybe you should try working harder,” he taunts, because that’s all he has left, it’s the only way he can fight back. And it’s fun, watching the disbelief on her face because each time he stops talking, head hanging down as he gathers his strength, she thinks she’s finally beaten the defiance out of him, and each time she’s wrong. “Maybe I could give you some pointers.”

She’s glaring daggers at him. And she’s holding a real dagger in her hand. “I like you better when you scream,” she tells him and lets the tip of the blade pierce his skin.

He screws his eyes shut, grits his teeth, bears the pain because he has no other choice.

Later, through the haze of pain that surrounds him constantly, he hears the sounds of rushed footsteps running down the stairs and he opens his eyes just in time to see the door to the room swing open, one of Abaddon’s minions standing there, breathless and looking scared. “My Queen, we… we have…  to leave!”

She gives him a disgusted look. “And why is that?”

Just as the demon opens his mouth to answer, the whole building shakes. “They’re coming!” He shrieks and runs out.

Abaddon turns to Dean, angry. “How did your brother manage to find us here?”

It was probably Kevin tracing Abaddon’s calls, Dean realizes. Or Zeke doing his angel mojo. It doesn’t really matter though, all that matters is that rescue is coming.

The house shakes again, harder this time.

The demons start to panic, even Abaddon begins to look worried. Then there’s blinding white light and high-pitched noise, and the shaking gets worse. Dean closes his eyes and listens to the shrieks of the demons as they’re slain. He recognizes Abaddon’s voice among them, screaming and screaming before going silent.

He opens his eyes, gasps at what he sees. The demons, including Abaddon, are lifeless on the floor.

But there’s no Sam, no Cas and Zeke, no rescue.

There’s a bunch of suit-wearing, stern-looking angels. They all watch Dean with matching expressions of disgust and hatred.

“Uh… hi?” Dean tries a smile and gets none in return.

One of the angels – a fit, rich businessman type – steps forward. “My name is Bartholomew. You will tell me where Castiel is.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'll get Dean back_ , Castiel thinks. _No matter what the cost._

Castiel stares at the picture on Sam’s cellphone, holding the device with weak, shaking fingers. Sam is talking to him but the words don’t reach Castiel’s brain, and he’s vaguely, distantly aware of Kevin and Ezekiel standing near, but all he sees is Dean, naked and chained up and bloody and yet glaring defiantly into the camera, a beast chained but untamed.

There’s so much blood though.

Castiel sways, the world spinning around him.

Immediately, Sam’s hand is on his shoulder, squeezing. “Cas? You alright?”

Castiel tears his eyes off the phone screen, looks up to Sam. “I…” He pauses, thinks. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

He makes it to the bathroom just in time.

He stays there when he’s done, kneeling on the tiled floor, leaning against the toilet because he suddenly feels absolutely drained of all power, too weak to move a finger.

Behind him, there are sounds of booted feet shuffling on the floor, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder again.

“I wish to be alone,” he says, not bothering to look who he’s talking to. Judging by the size of the hand, it’s probably Ezekiel or Sam, definitely not Kevin. Not that it matters.

Nothing matters but saving Dean and yet Castiel still can’t find the strength in himself to move.

“This is fear,” the man standing behind him tells him, and it’s Sam’s voice.

“I know fear. I’ve felt fear before.” More times than he’s comfortable with admitting. “This is nothing like that.”

“Because you don’t fear for your life, you fear for his. That’s much more difficult to handle.” Sam chuckles behind Castiel, and how dare he laugh in such a dire situation? “Dean, for instance, can’t handle being the one who’s left behind to worry at all. That’s why he always does something cosmically stupid.” A pause. “But we’re not like Dean. We won’t do anything stupid.”

Castiel closes his eyes, trying to fight a new attack of nausea. He waits until is passes before speaking again. “You mean we won’t try to rescue him.”

He’s grabbed by a pair of strong, large hands that bunch up his shirt, and then he’s turned around and staring into Sam’s angry, determined face. “How dare you even say that?” Sam growls, teeth bared and eyes narrowed, looking like a dangerous predator save for the trace of desperation in his eyes, a tint of helplessness in his voice. “Of course we’ll rescue him. But I’m not doing anything reckless that would only kill us all. And neither are you.”

“We’ll find a way to save him,” says Ezekiel from where he’s standing in the door, solid and comforting and convinced. It soothes Castiel a little. Just a little. “Kevin is already trying to trace the call and I’ve already contacted my brothers and sisters. They’re all looking for him.”

Except Castiel knows that _they all_ means eight, maybe ten angels at best, and since Dean is protected by the Enochian sigils, the only way they could find him would be the old-fashioned way. And that way is too slow.

“Let’s get you washed up, you’ll feel better,” Sam leads Castiel towards the sink, helps him wash his face, hands him a towel. “Good. Now let’s go find a plan to get Dean back.”

*

Sam’s phone vibrates again, a sound that Castiel’s come to fear more than anything in the past… what, eight hours? It feels more like an eternity, and Castiel doesn’t even want to think how long it must feel for Dean, wherever he is.

Sam looks at the new batch of pictures and goes pale, closing his eyes for a moment. “God.”

“Let me see,” Castiel stands up and holds out his hand.

“Cas, you don’t–“

“Yes, I do.”

The phone is reluctantly put into his hand and Castiel looks at the screen, feels his knees go weak and sits down quickly. He drops the phone on the table, screen down.

“That bad?” Kevin asks, flat and barely audible. He's pale, with dark circles under his eyes. None of them have gotten any sleep since this nightmare started.

Castiel shakes his head. He wants to cry. “I’ve seen his dreams of Hell. Nothing she’s doing to him hasn’t been done to him before. This… nothing of this would even register on the Hell scale.” He wants to laugh.

“What if he dies before we find him?”

Ezekiel picks up the phone and looks at the pictures, his face betraying no emotions as he studies them. “He will not die. I’ve thoroughly examined and catalogued all of his injuries and based on my knowledge of the human physiology, I can assure you that his injuries are very painful, but none of them are anywhere near fatal. Abaddon won't let him die, she needs him to suffer, it's her only leverage against us.”

So this is why Dean used to call angels cold-hearted and emotionless. It’s not true, Castiel knows that, but he still feels indignant, outraged at the seemingly indifferent way Ezekiel speaks of Dean’s suffering.

Abruptly, Kevin stands up, almost knocking over his chair as he goes, and begins pacing across the library, both hands in his hair, face screwed in concentration.

“Kevin?”

The boy stops his pacing to offer an apologetic, teary-eyed look. “I don’t know how to find him. I mean, I should be able to trace her calls, or, you know… some traffic cam must’ve caught his face, or Abaddon’s, or…”

“Or his car,” Ezekiel suggests. “Either they kidnapped him and left it there, which would at least mean we’d know where to start looking, or they took it with them.”

They stare at him, all three of them feeling stupid for not thinking of that before when it should’ve been basically the first thing to do. Having an emotionally detached, strictly analytical mind on the team can obviously be useful.

“I’ll get right on it,” Kevin sits back down and starts typing on his laptop, new strength and energy clearly visible in his movements now that he again has a clear objective.

Not sure how he can help, Castiel sits and waits.

It’s one of the most difficult things he’s ever had to do in his life.

He distracts himself with making coffee and sandwiches. When everyone is fed and nearly intoxicated with caffeine, he occupies himself with checking and cleaning all their weapons, just like he's seen Dean do countless times when Dean needed to calm his mind.

It's not working very well.

*

Sam’s phone starts ringing.

“That’s weird. It hasn’t been two hours yet and she usually just sends the pictures,” he frowns as he answers the call. “Yeah?” He frowns, looking confused. Something’s wrong. “Uh… yeah, he’s here. Cas, this is for you.”

Castiel takes the phone with a shaky hand, whatever this is about, it can’t possibly be good. “Yes?”

“Hello, Castiel.” That’s not Abaddon. It’s a male voice, one that Castiel doesn’t recognize.

“Who is this?”

“Bartholomew, my dear, lost brother. I’d like to inform you that we have your… boyfriend,” the word is said with contempt and disgust. “We’re willing to make an exchange.”

“For me,” Castiel understands quickly.

“Yes, for you. And that Prophet, we want him too.”

“That’s not acceptable. You’ll have to make do with me only.” Castiel ignores the surprised, questioning glances from his friends, he’ll explain everything later.

“No. You and the Prophet. Or your precious human pet will continue to suffer.” Bartholomew gives a dark laugh, the sound makes Castiel’s skin crawl. “And remember, we can do much more than that demonic abomination did. He can be brought to the brink of death and healed repeatedly, so we’re free to cut deeper. _Much_ deeper. Just listen.”

A bloodcurdling scream comes from the other end of the line, followed by a growled, abruptly cut off yet distinctly Dean-like “Son of a b–“

“He’s not very well-bred,” Bartholomew observes. “I don’t understand what you see in him. But it’s clear that you care about him. So you’ll give yourself and the Prophet over to us. I suggest the cathedral of Saint Mary in Colorado Springs as the meeting point. They celebrate the Eucharist each day at 7 in the morning and at noon. We’ll be waiting for you then. Don't let Dean suffer. Come soon.”

“But–“

The line goes dead.

The phone vibrates just seconds after, a new set of pictures is sent, Bartholomew's way of showing that he means business.

He wasn’t lying. They did cut deeper this time.

*

“They can’t transport themselves anymore, they have to travel like normal people,” Sam says, standing over a large map of the United States laid out on the table. “They must be somewhere around Colorado Springs then, within comfortable driving distance. Either they’re already there or they’ll get there soon.”

Ezekiel nods. “That narrows it down considerably.”

Kevin joins the conversation for the first time since he’s learned he’s wanted by the angels again. He’s not taking it very well, not that Castiel blames him. “I’ll hack into the cams in Colorado Springs and its surroundings, see if I can find someone looking like they’re not wearing their own skin. They’ll surely have someone watching the church’s perimeter and maybe that will lead us somewhere. Help us find them.”

“And when we do find them?” Castiel asks, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He’s so tired. How could the Winchesters function like this for so long? “Bartholomew could have his whole army of angels with him, we can’t go against him like this. We’re too weak.”

“I could call the angels who are on our side, ask them to fight for us,” Ezekiel suggests. He’s watching Castiel like he’s waiting for something, and Castiel is afraid he knows what that is. “I’m not sure they’ll all dare join us so openly, but I believe at least some of them will help.”

Castiel places his palms on the flat surface of the table. “That’s not good enough.”

Sam’s face is drawn tight, eyes sharp as he looks up. “What do you suggest then?”

Castiel hangs his head. He knows what he has to do; he just hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this. “I have to get my wings back.”

“What?” Sam and Kevin say at once, incredulous.

“Ezekiel, please explain it to them,” Castiel stands up and starts walking away. “I need some time alone.”

He leaves without waiting for a reply.

He wanders aimlessly through the bunker’s halls and staircases, alone with his doubts and fears, until his legs carry him to his and Dean’s room. He hasn’t been in there since Dean went missing, hasn’t found the courage to enter that place and be confronted with its emptiness, with the possibility that it might become just _Castiel’s room_ if they don’t find Dean in time.

He can’t allow himself the luxury of doubt or fear anymore. He has to let it all go. Be strong. For Dean.

He puts his hand on the handle and walks in, closes the door behind him and curls into a ball on the bed, face buried in the pillow that still has Dean’s smell on it, and he weeps. He weeps until he can’t weep anymore, until he has no more tears, until he’s cleansed of everything he can't allow himself to feel right now and all that’s left is the cold determination of _I’ll get him back._

Because he will. No matter what the cost.

*

When he comes back down to the library, everyone’s busy again. Ezekiel is on the phone, talking to the allied angels, Kevin is typing away on his laptop and Sam is still studying the map of the States.

There are red dots marked on the map, all over it, some solitary, some in clusters.

“That’s where the angels fell,” Sam explains when he sees Castiel watching the dots. “The monitor in our bunker was able to detect them.”

“How do we know which ones are angels that survived and which ones are just their fallen Graces?”

“Google,” Kevin calls up from his laptop, not looking up from the screen.

“I don’t understand.”

“You know how we found found the place where Anna’s Grace landed?” Sam asks, not waiting for a reply before continuing, “It was hidden in a beautiful tall oak tree in Kentucky. Until Uriel took it, at least.”

“So we’re looking for unnaturally quickly grown trees?”

“Not just trees,” Kevin says.

“You know this, brother. Where an angel’s Grace touches the earth, things of beauty are created,” Ezekiel explains further, offering Castiel a small smile.

“So we just look where the angels landed and then look for something new and beautiful in the vicinity,” Kevin speaks again. “We’re looking for places close to us first.”

“And what have you found so far?”

“Come take a look.”

They all shuffle until they’re standing behind Kevin, looking at the computer screen, listening to him talk: “Independence, Kansas.” A picture of an unremarkable building shows up, a group of children in uniform lined up in front of it. “The local choir used to be pretty average. Now? They’re writing their own songs, their own music, and according to everyone that’s heard them, they’re amazing. Heavenly, the critics say.”

“Next, we have Hill City, also Kansas.” A picture of a simple yet surprisingly elegant family house, all clean, white walls and perfect proportions. In a way, it reminds Castiel of van der Rohe's Barcelona Pavilion. “The house is brand new. It’s already won, like, every architecture award in the country. And the funny thing is everything else the architect’s ever built was… well... crap. He says he had a revelation, that the place spoke to him.”

“Tulsa, Oklahoma.” A picture of a middle-aged man holding a violin, a proud smile on his face. “This guy’s father was a violin maker. He passed away a year ago, left his workshop to his son who didn’t really know what he was doing. Until about seven months ago. Now they say he’s the new Stradivari.”

“We’ve got more, but these are the closest we’ve managed to find so far,” Ezekiel interrupts Kevin, earning himself a slightly dissatisfied look from the boy. “Hill City is less than two hours from here. So, are we going?”

*

Castiel turns the engine off and steps out of the car that Sam’s “obtained” for them without explaining how (Castiel didn't ask). Ezekiel follows one step behind him.

They stand by the car and stare at the house built on the place where an angel’s Grace touched the ground.

It’s beautiful. Peaceful. Cozy yet spacious. Everything seems perfectly balanced – the house and its components, the house and its surroundings, the house and the family that dines in the dining room, seen clearly through the large floor to ceiling window.

The house feels like a home and Castiel is suddenly flooded with desire to settle down here, he can practically see himself with Dean sitting in that dining room, holding hands and laughing over something silly while fire blazes in the fireplace.

“Let’s go, brother,” Ezekiel says and Castiel’s mind is forced to snap back to reality.

They start walking towards the house, up a neat footpath that leads up the gentle slope of the small hill.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Castiel asks once they’re nearly there.

“It will work,” Ezekiel assures him with his typical calm.

“What if it changes me? It’s not _my_ Grace after all.”

“Your Grace is not your soul, Castiel. If it was, you’d be a changed man after Metatron took it from you.”

“I am a changed man.”

“Not where it matters,” Ezekiel’s hand is gentle on Castiel’s upper arm, urging him to keep walking. “Do not worry.”

They knock on the door and wait until it’s opened, the father of the family looking at them with a warm, sincere smile. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

Ezekiel’s fingers touch the man’s forehead. “Take your family outside and wait there until we tell you to come back inside.”

The man’s face goes blank and obedient. “Yes.” He goes and leads his wife and two children out through the backdoor without question.

Ezekiel and Castiel enter the house.

“It’s still here,” Ezekiel whispers, his voice becoming unusually shaky, excited even. “Can you feel it?”

Castiel can’t, but that’s fine, Ezekiel will do what has to be done in his place.

He settles himself in one of the comfortable chairs in the beautifully, tastefully furnished living room and watches Ezekiel prepare the ingredients for the required spell, laying them all out on the wood flooring.

“Not so long ago, you told me you didn’t want to be an angel again,” Ezekiel comments as he draws Enochian symbols on the floor with a piece of coal taken from Solomon's Temple. The resources of the Men of Letters are quite impressive.

“I still don’t,” Castiel replies. “And rest assured, this doesn’t mean I’ll return to my place in the Host. I’m only doing this for him.”

“I know.” Ezekiel stands up. “Everything is ready. Are you?”

Standing up, Castiel meets the angel’s eyes and starts to unbutton the collar of his shirt. “I am.”

“Very well.” Ezekiel draws a blade and puts it to Castiel’s throat. “I will begin. I suggest you close your eyes.”

Castiel does as he’s told, standing still and waiting as Ezekiel chants, his voice growing louder and louder until it morphs into something else entirely, a sound so high it’s not even a sound anymore, it’s a vibration in the air, in the floor under Castiel’s feet, in Castiel himself.

Ezekiel makes the cut on Castiel’s throat then. The pain barely registers as he feels scalding hot energy pouring into him, filling him up, taking over him. He can feel power coursing through his veins, through every cell of his body, swirling and buzzing under his skin until he remembers how to control it.

Castiel opens his eyes and flaps his wings.

*

Sam and Kevin are staring at him as if they saw a ghost.

“Wow,” says Sam finally, still gawking. “You look… different.”

“I am different,” Castiel agrees, nodding. “But I am also still the same.”

“Yeah,” Sam says softly, smiling with tired, bloodshot eyes. “I know, Cas.”

They sit around the table in the library again, drinking coffee. Neither Ezekiel or Castiel have to do that now, but Castiel’s grown very fond of the taste and Ezekiel’s decided right at the beginning to treat his vessel with as much respect as he can, letting the man whose body he’s occupying eat and drink and sometimes, when there’s time, even sleep.

“So, while we were gone,” Castiel directs his gaze at Sam and Kevin, “did you make any progress?”

Kevin’s face lights up. “Actually, yeah, we did. I think we found them. Like I thought, they’ve already set up a perimeter around the church and I was able to use the city cams to track them back to the warehouse building that probably serves as their headquarters.” He clucks his tongue. “It’s like they’re not even trying to cover their tracks.”

“Bartholomew must be confident that we won’t even attempt to attack them. He believes we are alone and he believes himself undefeatable.”

Nodding, Kevin shows the place on Google Street View. “Based on what I could find in the municipal archives, the building’s large enough to house tens of people, but I went through all the camera feeds from the past week and as far as I can tell there’s only about fifteen angels in there. It’s definitely not their main camp.” He clicks on a video, pointing at an image of a large van going through the warehouse gate. “See, this was over four hours ago, about fifteen minutes before Bartholomew first contacted us. Dean must be in that van.”

Castiel looks at Ezekiel. “How many angels’ help can we count on?” He holds his breath, waiting for the answer that might mean the difference between life and death. Dean’s life and death.

“Eight have promised to fight for us.”

Relieved because he was fully expecting to hear a lower number, Castiel feels himself smile. “That’s ten angels with you and me.”

“And one seasoned hunter,” Sam joins in and Castiel thanks him with a nod.

“And one young but very inventive Prophet,” Kevin says.

“No, you can’t go,” Castiel tells him.

“Why the hell not? I want to help. And I _can_ help. I’m kind of a genius, if you haven’t noticed,” Kevin sounds offended and angry at the same time. “I managed to evade Crowley for a whole year on my own, you know, and I’ve trained with Sam and Dean since I started living here so I know my way around in a fight, too. I’m useful.”

Surprised at the outburst, Castiel raises his hands, palms out, signaling a truce. “I know you are. You are very useful. And that’s why you have to stay here.”

“He’s right, you know,” Sam steps in, his tone placatory. “Bart probably wants Castiel just so he can get his revenge on him, but whatever reason he wants you for… We can’t risk him getting his hands on you.”

Kevin pouts, eyebrows knit together in a frown. “What am I supposed to do then? Just sit here and wait for you to come back with Dean or die there with him?” His lower lip begins to tremble, he’s holding back tears. “You’re gonna leave me alone again?”

“You’re not alone.”

The boy snorts. “Yeah, I’ll have Crowley for company. Thanks a lot.”

“Kevin, look, I get that this is hard for you,” Sam says, offering him an honest, understanding look. “But we need someone to hold the fort while we’re gone, okay?” It sounds more like something Dean would say, and oddly enough it seems to work because Kevin nods, muttering “Yeah, okay.”

“We’ll bring him back,” Sam promises, looking into Kevin’s eyes. “So you just stay safe.”

They set out soon after that, armed with Holy Oil Molotovs, angel blades and something that Kevin and Ezekiel built in their spare time over the Christmas holidays and named _The Angel Radio Disruptor_. According to Kevin, the disruptor should create some sort of white noise that will make it impossible for the angels in the device’s immediate vicinity to call out for help to their fellow-soldiers.

Kevin sees them to the car, helps them load up the supplies. He talks almost all the time, nervous babble that more often than not doesn’t really make sense except for the implicit message hidden under it all, the _please be safe and please come back, don’t leave me alone_.

“We’ll be back,” Sam promises to the boy and hugs him, and Castiel feels a pang of pain in his heart at the way Kevin clings to the Winchester, afraid to let go of the only family he has left.

On an instantaneous impulse, Castiel hugs Kevin too, which draws a surprised exhalation from him at first, but then Kevin hugs him back gratefully.

Ezekiel offers Kevin a small, polite bow of his head and gets a tearful yet brave smile in return.

After that, Kevin runs off into the bunker, slamming the door shut behind him, without saying a word of goodbye.

“Poor kid,” Sam comments, sighing as he moves to the driver’s seat, reaching out to open the door of the truck.

He’s stopped by Ezekiel’s hand locking around his wrist. “I’m driving. You get in the back and get some sleep.”

“I–“ For a moment, it looks like Sam is about to protest, but then he nods and gets into the backseat. He is going to need all of his strength if he wants to be of any help in the impending fight and he knows it. He leans back in the seat, settling there as comfortably as he can with his limbs that are too long even for the spacious interior of the Impala, let alone a car like this.

Ezekiel sits behind the wheel and Castiel takes the front passenger seat and they take off.

“You’re a very good driver,” Castiel observes after several minutes of tense, oppressive silence.

“I was in Sam for a very long time,” the angel replies, keeping his eyes on the road and both hands on the steering wheel like a model driver, nothing like Dean who has a tendency to stare at Castiel for long, meaningful moments even as he drives. “I had a good teacher, I’ve learned a lot.” And Castiel knows that he isn’t talking just about driving skills.

In the backseat, Sam stirs. “Could you please not say it like that?”

Ezekiel inclines his head to one side. “Like what?”

“Just… don’t say you were _in_ me, okay?” Sam blushes slightly. “It sounds kinda dirty. That one time when I was possessed by Meg, Dean wouldn’t shut up about me having a girl inside me for _weeks_.”

That sounds so typically Dean that Castiel isn’t able to suppress a smile.

Ezekiel nods. “I will remember to phrase it differently next time then.”

“Thanks.” Sam yawns, his eyes drooping, and soon after that, he’s snoring slightly in the backseat, fast asleep.

Silence settles in the car.

*

Over the six-hour drive from Lebanon to Colorado Springs, Bartholomew sends new pictures several times.

Each time there is a theme.

The first one is blunt instruments, and when Castiel sees all the broken bones, all the bruises and lacerations that mar Dean’s barely-alive body, for one shameful moment he loses control of his anger and causes a blizzard in the fifteen-mile radius of their car.

The second set of pictures shows a theme of fire, the third theme is electricity, the fourth one is whips and canes.

If they make it in time, there will be no fifth one.

In the meantime, Castiel carefully looks at the pictures, lets the vengeful rage boil and grow inside him, building up a cold fire that he’ll later use to scorch Bartholomew to dust.

Nobody gets to hurt Dean and live.

*

Just outside of Colorado Springs, they pull off the highway and take a turn towards an abandoned factory, the pre-arranged meeting place where the allied angels should be waiting.

They’re all already there.

Castiel smiles when he recognizes Muriel among them. “It’s good to see you’ve found your courage, sister.”

She makes a little bow. “I’m just following your example, Castiel.”

He greets the others, too; some of them he’s personally met before, some of them are new faces to him. He thanks them all for coming.

“How many soldiers does Bartholomew have?” Hadraniel asks, looking up at Castiel through the eyes of a boy that can’t be more than sixteen years old.

“There’s no way to be sure, but we estimate about fifteen.”

“Fifteen,” Hadraniel repeats grimly. “So we’ll be outnumbered and we won’t know if we’re not walking into a trap. We're risking our lives for one human.”

Castiel bristles, his hackles rising, but he pushes his emotions aside for the sake of settling the matter as quickly as possible.

“We’ll have the advantage of surprise, brother,” Ezekiel objects. “Numbers  are not all there is.”

“I know that,” Hadraniel growls, impatient. “There is also skill and experience. Surely Bartholomew will have his best warriors with him. But we? We’re not warriors, we’re refugees, deserters.” There is fear in his voice, and doubt, and nervousness. It’s obvious he doesn’t really want to fight and Castiel wishes Hadraniel hadn’t come here at all because being one soldier down is better than having the soldier around and demoralizing the rest of the troops.

Fear is highly contagious and it spreads fast.

The other angels are starting to look doubtful too, ardor and resolution vanishing from their faces, their stances going from fight to flight.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Sam steps in, walking right into the middle of the small group from where he just stood aside silently up until now. “I thought all angels were warriors. Fierce and dangerous and uncompromising. Seriously, what happened to you, guys? When we first met you, you were fucking _scary_. Your name alone used to be enough to make demons flee in panic.”

“That was before the Fall,” Simiel mutters defiantly. “Our wings are broken and burnt, our strength is half-drained. We’re all just barely holding together.”

“Well, welcome to the club!” Sam shouts in Simiel’s face, making her flinch as he hovers over her middle-aged motherly type vessel. “We’re all damaged, we’re all broken! That doesn’t mean you just get to stop doing whatever it is you have to do, you know?”

“But–“ Hadraniel starts objecting again. He doesn't get very far.

“No. No buts.” Sam stands in the center of the circle of angels, turning so he can look into each individual face. He’s taller than any of them, and even though he’s just a man, he gives off an air of authority and respect. “You’re angels. You’re the good guys, fighting the good fight. And so is Dean. And you’re gonna man up and come with us and together we’re gonna save him. Have I made myself clear?”

Some of them agree immediately – Muriel is the first, and again, Castiel is proud of her. Some of them need more encouragement, but in the end, even Hadraniel nods his head.

The corners of Sam’s mouth lift into something resembling a smile. It’s the smile of a killer, and once again Castiel is reminded that Sam Winchester is no ordinary man, he’s the one with a will strong enough to overpower Lucifer himself. “Good. Any questions?" There are none. "Perfect. Now get into your cars and let’s go.”

And they go.

“That was… impressive,” Castiel says when they’re back in their car, Sam behind the wheel this time, Castiel in the passenger seat, Ezekiel in the back. “Very impressive.”

Sam chuckles. “I’ve watched my Dad and then Dean boss people around my whole life. Hell, I even watched Dean give orders to a room full of pagan gods once. So this? This was easy.”

“Easy,” Castiel looks into the wing mirror, watching the two other cars full of angels that follow them.

They can do this. They have to.

“Easy,” he repeats, with more conviction this time, as they head into Colorado Springs and into war.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cavalry has arrived. About time.

“I honestly don’t understand what Castiel sees in you,” Bartholomew says in a deceptively neutral tone, like he’s talking to a TV reporter or maybe doing the weather forecast. He’s like that all the time, no inflection, no change in diction, betraying no emotions with his voice or expression, only his words. “Or in humanity as a whole, for that matter.”

Oh, here we go again, Dean thinks, groaning inwardly. Another of those angel supremacists like Uriel or Zachariah, so eager to tell Dean what a lowlife scumbag he is.

“Just look at yourself. All the blood and entrails and fluids… You’re disgusting.”

Dean considers trying to lift his head to glare at Bartholomew, but after giving it a thought, he decides against it. Firstly, his head is too heavy and trying to lift it would require precious energy that he’s saving as much as he can, and secondly looking at that bastard’s face doesn’t really sound too enticing. The filthy, blood-caked floor under Dean’s feet is a much better sight.

Doesn’t mean Dean can’t talk back, though. “And what did you expect, after going all Spanish Inquisition on me?”

Bart clucks his tongue. “Still so impudent. Still so defiant. It’s not going to do you much good.”

“Gee, thanks.” Like Dean doesn’t know that. His mouth’s already gotten him into trouble more times than he could possibly count. Maybe it’s because he has a problem with authorities, maybe he just likes to annoy the living crap out of the sons of bitches who think they can screw with him.

He was like this even in Hell, long years into his stay there, when he was already coming to realize that he wouldn’t hold out forever, that there’d inevitably come a day when he’d break. Even then he still talked back to Alastair, provoked him with defiant words and glares, just to spite him, just to see him seethe. He had known he was going down, but he went down fighting tooth and nail till the last moment. And that, his stubborn and seemingly pointless resistance in the face of a defeat that they both knew was inevitable, was what pissed Alastair off more than anything else.

“Dean, I’m offended. You’re ignoring me again.” Bartholomew’s shiny black shoes come into Dean’s view and then strong fingers take hold of his chin, forcing Dean to look up into the bastard’s face. “Are we boring you?”

“Nah, you guys are awesome.”

Bart’s expression is blank. The guy has no sense of humor, no sense of irony. It’s practically impossible to piss him off; every insult, every mockery just slides off him like water, no matter how hard Dean tries. And Dean’s tried a lot, it’s the only thing he can do to keep himself entertained in between the torture sessions, to keep himself mostly sane. (And he’s definitely not thinking about rescue, and he’s not thinking about Cas, or Sam, he doesn’t allow himself hope because every time he hopes for something, it all goes to Hell. So he’s not hoping for rescue.)

“I think it’s time for another session,” the son of a bitch says, letting go of Dean’s chin and wiping the blood that got stuck to his fingers on a snow-white handkerchief before settling comfortably into the fancy huge leather chair where he spends most of the time because unlike Abaddon, Bartholomew doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. “Bethel, if you will, please.”

Bartholomew’s henchman steps forward, twirling a long, thin metal switch between his fingers. It’s sad, really, that Dean knows perfectly well how much harm it will cause. The thing is going to tear him to shreds, and then they’ll heal him up and start all over again, just like before. (But he’s not hoping for rescue, not at all.)

Something of his inner struggle must’ve shown on his face though because Bartholomew laughs that fake, cold, emotionless laugh of a professional politician, and says benevolently, “Unless, of course, you decided to tell me where Castiel and the Prophet are hiding.”

That’s never going to happen, but if Dean can put off the start of the pain even for just a short while, he’ll do it. He’s not an idiot and he’s not a masochist either. “I get why you want Castiel, but what do you want Kevin for? You gonna kill him too? Or torture him for fun?”

“Not at all,” the angel replies and motions for Bethel to move away, and Dean can’t help breathing out in relief that his world is going to stay agony-free a few moments longer. “I want him to translate something for me.”

“And what’s that?” Dean tries his luck, hoping to prolong the conversation.

Luckily, Bart is obviously in a talkative mood, maybe he’s hoping he’ll convince Dean like this, who knows. Who cares. “We found another tablet.” He holds out one hand, and the item materializes in his palm. It looks just like the angel and demon tablets that Dean’s already seen. “We weren’t able to decipher it, of course, but even I can tell that this isn’t Metatron’s handwriting. It was written by someone else. Someone older than him, I believe.”

“Like… God?”

“Yes, possibly.” Bartholomew sighs and carefully places the tablet on a serving table by his side, taking a glass of champagne from it instead. “Whoever is the author, he hid some highly valuable information there. Word is among the angels that Metatron’s walking the Earth, looking for it desperately, just as he is looking for the Prophet.”

“He’s afraid of what’s written there,” Dean says, his heart picking up speed as he realizes what this means. It might be a chance to fix Metatron’s spell. And if Sam and Cas ever decide to come and rescue him (but Dean’s not hoping!), it would be really great if they managed to take that tablet with them back to the bunker. (But he’s not hoping.)

“Exactly,” the angel nods and sips on his champagne. He hasn’t offered Dean any, the selfish fucker. “So, now that I’ve explained the situation, do you feel more cooperative?”

Apparently the break is over. “You mean do I feel like a spineless snitch? Nah, not particularly.”

“I see.” Bart doesn’t seem very surprised and Dean takes strange, twisted pride in the fact. “Bethel, please carry on.”

“Bethel, please don’t,” Dean says, mimicking Bart’s tone.

Bethel either isn’t as patient as Bartholomew or he really likes beating Dean up because he rewards Dean’s comment with a punch to his face, one that’s hard enough it almost snaps Dean’s neck and ends it all, only of course it wouldn’t really end anything, they’d just bring him back again. Just like in Hell, there’s no way out of this. It’s so fucked up it’s hilarious and Dean spits blood and broken teeth in Bethel’s face, laughing even as he gets a fist in the stomach, a knee in the nuts, and the blows keep coming until he can’t laugh anymore because one of his broken ribs must’ve punctured a lung and he’s choking on his own blood.

Then there’s a touch on his temple and _whoosh_ , he’s alright again.

“I’m sorry, I got carried away,” Bethel apologizes – not to Dean but to Bartholomew who’s giving his subordinate a vaguely dissatisfied, reproving look – and picks up the metal switch from the ground where he must’ve dropped it in the middle of his angry tantrum.

Dean screams and laughs and curses and cries as Bethel gets to work and the switch sets his body on fire, praying for it to be over, and okay, he was lying about the not hoping for rescue part because _damn, where the hell are you, Cas_?

And that’s fucking brilliant, because the moment he thinks that thought, there’s a ruckus behind the closed door of this room, screams and blows and unmistakable sounds of struggle, and then the door swings open and there’s Castiel, the embodiment of wrath and fury and destruction.

Light bulbs are exploding above Cas’s head as he strides purposefully across the room in his new navy blue trench coat, mouth set into a stern line, eyes hard and unforgiving and fuck yeah, huge dark wings reflecting on the wall behind him as he approaches Bartholomew, gracefully avoiding Bartholomew’s drawn angelblade but easily stabbing him with his own, not even stopping in motion as he continues walking towards Dean and Bethel who starts backing away although it’s clear he doesn’t stand a chance.

Cas has always been good with blades.

It’s over in a blink of an eye and unsurprisingly, Cas is the only angel left standing, and God, he’s magnificent, majestic, electrifying, imposing, captivating, glorious and a thousand other big words that Dean doesn’t know or maybe they don’t even exist, because how can you put something as… everything as _Castiel_ into words?

Because Cas looks different. Not bigger or anything, he’s still his old slim and slender self, but there’s this air of greatness around him, an aura that makes the space around him appear to belong to him, the air around him cracking and sizzling with power. He emanates strength and confidence; he seems indestructible, invulnerable, invincible. Angel of the Lord and all that, the kind of presence that makes you want to drop to your knees in reverential awe.

Finally Cas lets go of his angelblade, the weapon clattering as it’s dropped to the ground, and moves towards Dean. His shoulders slump and he’s walking with a slight limp now, and only then does Dean notice the cuts in Cas’s coat, the bloodstains that are growing larger, blood seeping through the blue fabric and coloring it black.

“I will be fine, Dean,” Cas says quickly when he sees the question in Dean’s eyes, and then he’s there, gentle, caring hands on Dean’s shoulders, his touch healing both metaphorically and literally. The chains around Dean’s wrists dissolve into thin air. “Dean,” Cas repeats over and over as he stares at him with those perfect, crystal blue eyes filled with worry and concern and unshed tears.

“Yeah,” is all that Dean manages to say as he lets Cas hold him, relaxes into the embrace, closing his eyes and clutching onto his angel – and they’re going to have to talk about that later, but not now – with all the desperation he hasn’t allowed himself to feel before.

Cas is still shorter and slighter than Dean, that hasn’t changed, but when he wraps his arms around him, it’s like Dean is enveloped in a big, warm, safe, protective cocoon where nothing can hurt him, and maybe that’s Cas’s invisible wings around him or maybe it’s just Cas’s love, but either way it feels too good to let it go anywhere in the foreseeable future.

“You should probably put some clothes on,” Cas murmurs into the hollow of Dean’s neck, breaking the mood.

“Later.” Dean doesn’t want to let go. Who needs clothes if you can have Cas instead?

“I think sooner–“

“Just shut up and let me enjoy the moment, okay?”

Cas gives a long-suffering sigh but thankfully doesn’t attempt to say anything else.

“Dean, are you– Oh, sorry.” That’s Sam’s embarrassed voice, followed by shuffling feet. “I’ll give you two a minute. But you better put some clothes on, Dean.”

Keeping his eyes resolutely closed, Dean unenthusiastically mutters, “Yeah, okay.”

But not five seconds later, there are sounds of multiple approaching footsteps, and Dean’s had enough. He lets go of Cas, pushing him away to give an earful to whoever is trying to disturb their emotional – yet manly, of course – reunion. He opens his mouth to start yelling, but when he’s confronted with the curious, direct stares of Zeke and eight other angels, he closes his mouth again and goes to try and hide behind Cas.

Sam is standing behind the angels, offering one of his rare gleeful, impish grins that says _told you so_. “Dean, these are the angels who helped saving your ass. Guys, this is Dean.”

*

After that awkward moment, Dean quickly gets dressed in the clothes that Sam – bless him – brought him from the bunker.

Then he gets a hug from Sam, one of those big, enveloping hugs that they usually share after one of them comes back from the dead – and isn’t it crazy that they actually have a special hug for that? – and a serious warning of “Don’t you ever go missing like that again!” As if Dean did it on purpose.

Dean goes to thank Ezekiel’s friends for helping saving him after that. He doesn’t really know how to do that, he’s not used to people (angels, whatever) actually being nice to him, but he figures he can’t go wrong with a sincere “Thank you” together with a look right in the eyes and a firm handshake. Most of the angels just nod, but this cute, pouty blonde gives him an honest smile, introduces herself as Muriel and says, sounding like she means it: “It’s an honor to meet the man who taught Castiel about free will. Your firm determination and will to keep fighting is an inspiration to us all, Dean. So thank _you_.”

Dean, unaccustomed to such praise and having a somewhat twisted and ill-timed sense of humor, shrugs and replies, “Nah, I just slapped him around until he promised to do whatever I tell him.”

Cas has to step in then and set things straight because Muriel is not very good at irony and neither are the other angels.

After that crisis is averted, things go back to more or less normal. They search the warehouse, take the tablet that Bartholomew considered so important, get rid of any evidence they might’ve left behind – except for the killed angels’ vessels, they leave them there for the police to find them, because their families deserve to know – and then they get ready to leave.

Dean has a mild panic attack when he learns that Baby isn’t here with them, shouting at Sam and Cas and Zeke that leaving Baby behind is an unforgivable crime punishable by eternal damnation, which starts a discussion among the other angels who object that no such thing is written in the Book as far as they know.

Finally, Ezekiel steps in and halts the impending argument, placates the angels and then turns to Dean: “You see, Kevin has localized the Impala but we decided to leave it where it is for now since we thought saving you might be a _slightly_ more important and pressing matter than retrieving your car.” (And wow, props for the appropriate and fitting use of sarcasm. Considering how new he is at this, Zeke is really exceptionally good at the whole acting like a human thing.)

“Okay, fine,” Dean gives up, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “But we’re picking her up on the way back to the bunker.”

Nobody objects to that.

The angels get into their cars – and this is priceless, watching their sour faces as they climb into the vehicles that must seem so slow in comparison to their usual way of transport – and drive off, heading to Kansas. Not to the bunker, luckily, just somewhere relatively near and safe where they’re apparently going to set up their own base camp.

Dean nods towards Zeke. “You coming with us?”

The angel gives a slight smile. “Yes. Since Castiel turned the position of our leader down,” he shoots Cas a meaningful look that Cas purposely ignores by staring at his boots, “I will serve as liaison between you and the angels. We’ll keep seeing each other quite often, I believe.”

“Awesome,” Dean grins, and he’s not even that surprised that he actually means it. Zeke is a good guy, he’s proven himself more than enough times already, and he’s much better at acting normal than Cas used to be when he was new to living among humans. “Now, can we go? And you,” he points at Cas, “are gonna explain how exactly did you get your mojo back.”

A brief scuffle follows when Dean tries to get behind the wheel of the 1970 Chevy truck and Sam practically drags him off it.

Dean pushes Sam’s freakishly large monster paws off him. “What the hell, dude?”

“You’re not driving,” Sam tells him, matter-of-fact. “You need to rest.”

“The hell I do!”

“You’ve been through a lot in the past…” Sam glances at his watch, “twenty hours, Dean. Lots of bad stuff.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean retorts wryly, “I was there the whole time. Now lemme drive.”

“No driving,” Cas buries his fingers deep in the flesh of Dean’s forearm. “You need to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Dean protests weakly, but when he sees the way everybody is looking at him, he decides that it’s not worth fighting over, sighs and climbs into the backseat with Cas while Sam gets behind the wheel, Zeke settling himself in the front passenger seat.

“This sucks,” Dean grumbles, but when Cas draws him close and Dean rests his head on Cas’s shoulder, he decides that sitting in the back might not be that bad after all.

*

They fill him in on what’s happened over the time he was gone on the way back to Kansas, telling him about the calls and gruesome pictures from Abaddon and then from Bartholomew, about how they had problems tracking him, how Zeke summoned the good angels and how they got cold feet and Sam put them in line like a boss (“That was very educational,” Zeke comments, and Dean nods, feeling proud of his little brother.) and how they barged into the building and took Bart's soldiers by surprise.

After that, Cas elaborates on how he went and found a dead angel’s Grace in somebody’s house and took it. Dean is having some trouble wrapping his mind around the concept of taking another angel's Grace and Cas helps by explaining that it’s somewhat similar to having an organ or a limb transplanted. Apparently it feels weird at first, but once you get used to it, you can’t really even tell the difference.

Dean thinks about it for a while, running the new information through his head, before he nods, fighting the clenching sensation in his stomach. “So you’re an angel again.” He doesn’t say the rest, the question that should follow, because he’s scared of Cas’s answer.

As if reading Dean’s thoughts, the angel looks Dean straight in the eyes. “I’m not going to leave you.” And it’s ridiculous and embarrassing how much weight is immediately lifted off Dean’s chest, how much easier he can breathe. “I’ll help my brothers and sisters take Heaven back, but not for me. My place is here. With you.”

Dean has more questions, many more (How is this going to change things between them? How is Cas going to handle dating someone of much lower class, so to speak? Isn’t he going to get bored and leave? And if he doesn’t leave, is Dean going to grow old and wrinkly while Cas stays young and beautiful?) but he leaves them to himself for now because he doesn’t want to spill his guts in front of Sam and Zeke, especially if asking these questions is going to make him look like some teenage chick talking to her vampire boyfriend on some freaking teenage TV show. No way.

So all he says is “Thanks,” and then he cuddles up closer to Cas, closes his eyes and stops worrying about the future, concentrates on the here and now, on Cas’s fingers carding through his hair, on the warmth of Cas’s body, on the comfort and safety it represents.

Every time he looks up, he can see Cas staring at him with something akin to awe, like Dean is something precious and sacred and the angel is having a hard time believing he’s close enough to touch. It’s throwing Dean a little off balance but he gets it, he would’ve acted the same way if their positions were reversed, so he lets Cas get away with it.

Actually, secretly he kinda likes it.

“I’m sorry it took us so long,” Cas whispers guiltily all of a sudden, gloomy and sullen. “We should’ve found you faster. I seem to have the habit of coming to the rescue when it’s already too late”

“You found me,” Dean says simply. “That’s what matters.”

“Still, I should’ve come sooner,” the angel mutters.

“Hey, Dean’s right, Cas,” Sam says. “If you keep beating yourself up over everything you’re gonna go nuts. Trust me. Take it from someone who knows.”

“Yeah, we’re the experts,” Dean chuckles, thankful for his brother’s support. “So no guilt trips, okay? You came, you killed Bart in a very spectacular fashion and saved my ass, so I’d call that a job well done.” He fixes his eyes on Cas. “You hear me?”

Sighing, Cas nods. “I hear you.”

They mostly stay silent after that, and eventually Dean starts dozing off, and the whole time he can feel Cas touching him, fingers in Dean’s hair or running over the skin on his neck in soothing circles, and he can feel Cas’s eyes on him, and things are good.

They wake him up when they reach the rest stop where Dean was kidnapped, and when he sees his Baby still parked in the parking lot, safe and unhurt, another weight drops off him. He sends Sam inside to fetch him some coffee and pie and when Sam goes, Dean does a cursory check on the car anyway, pops the hood and looks into the trunk to see if anything’s missing while Cas and Zeke look on.

Sam comes back with huge cups of coffee for everyone and believe it or not, he actually even remembered to bring the pie, which makes this a historic moment equal in importance to the likes of the discovery of fire, the wheel or free online porn.

Dean is in Heaven.

“I’m driving,” he proclaims once he finishes the pie and quickly slips into the driver's seat before anyone has the chance to react and then dares the others to try stop him.

They don’t, although they all look a bit worried and uncertain as they settle into the car and Sam mumbles under his breath, something about it not being really safe to drive so soon after going through what Dean’s gone through.

“What was that, Sammy?”

His brother grimaces, probably cursing himself for complaining out loud. “I just… what if you get a flashback or something, freak out, drive the car into a guard rail?”

“I’m not gonna freak out,” Dean replies simply and starts the engine. When all he gets is a distrustful huff from Sam, a frown from Cas and a head tilt from Zeke, he sighs and tries again, with more feeling, “Look, I know what I’m doing, alright?”

Because if there’s anything he’s learned in Hell – well, except for how to torture people and that everyone has their breaking point – it’s how to distinguish between reality and hallucination, memory or a flashback. He’s not gonna go off his rocker when somebody touches him unexpectedly or raises their voice or when he sees a blade or when a headlight gets into his eyes.

“If you crash the car and get hurt, I’m not healing you again,” Cas says from where he’s glowering darkly in the backseat.

“Me neither,” adds Zeke, sitting next to him with a perfect copy of Cas’s expression.

Sam nods and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “What they said.”

Dean rolls his eyes, his fingers tightening around the driving wheel as he wants to strangle them all for being so goddamn overprotective. “Come on, would I risk Baby’s life on this? No. So just shut up and let me drive my goddamn car.”

*

They reach the bunker before sunset.

Kevin is waiting for them in the main room, and just as he looks up from his laptop and his eyes settle on Dean, his whole face lights up and then he’s off, moving like greased lightning and launching himself into Dean’s arms so hard he almost knocks Dean’s breath out of him. “You’re alive!”

“Yeah,” Dean smiles, pats him on the back and waits patiently until Kevin lets go, gives Dean a once-over to make sure he’s not hurt, and then proceeds to give three equally enthusiastic hugs to Sam, Cas and even Zeke, who seems a bit confused at first but catches on before there’s time for things to get awkward.

The kid is wearing Sam’s charcoal hoodie, Dean realizes, the one that Dean himself has worn a couple of times when he felt sick or just plain miserable, because there’s something about being wrapped in that thing with its too-long sleeves and too-big everything that makes you feel warm and safe and small in the best sense of the word. Not that Dean would ever confess to it out loud. It’s one of the things he and Sam never talk about.

“Kev, we got you a present,” he says instead of commenting on the hoodie and winks at Cas who hands the kid the tablet from Bartholomew.

Kevin’s eyes go wide as he takes it. “Where’d you get this?”

“Bartholomew had it. Said Metatron’s been looking for it.” Dean considers omitting the next part but doesn’t, because he promised no more lies and because Kevin deserves to know, “and he’s been looking for you.”

Kevin’s head jerks up from the tablet, and he looks scared, but he doesn’t say anything, just nods with a sad, tight smile.

“We’re not gonna let him get his hands on you, okay?” Sam says, using his serious, reassuring tone that always works on civilians.

But Kevin’s not a civilian anymore, he's been in this life far too long to fully believe such assurances, and so he just shakes his head and offers another sad yet brave smile. “I better start translating.” He starts walking away, but Dean stops him before he can go too far.

“Kevin. Kevin!” He wrenches the tablet from Kevin’s fingers, places it aside and grabs the kid by the shoulders firmly. “Don’t freak out on us. This can wait, okay? You look like hell, you need to get some rest. We all do. So just… chill, man. Go play that awful music you like so much, watch some porn, go to bed. In fact,” he turns to look at the others, “I think we should all hit the sack.”

For a brief moment it seems like Kevin is going to have objections, but then he nods. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Dean ruffles Kevin’s hair and Kevin’s annoyed look at that reminds him of Sam when they were younger and Dean used to mess with his hair to rile him up. Good times.

They say their goodnights and go their separate ways to get the well-deserved night’s worth of sleep.

Hell, they all deserve a lifelong vacation, but a shower, a warm bed and a soft blanket is about as close as they’ll ever get, and that’s not actually so bad, so Dean’s not going to complain.

*

Dean takes a very long shower, stands there under the hot spray of water and lets it wash away the events of the past day, scrubs himself with soap three times, until he feels clean inside and out. Well, as clean as someone like him can get, anyway.

He brushes his teeth, checks his reflection in the mirror – a bit pale even after the long shower, his mouth a bit tight around the corners, the black circles under his eyes a bit darker than usual, but that’s to be expected, really, and he’s safe now, and he’s going to be fine, he knows that, even if it might take a little while, so he’s alright.

He slips into his bathrobe (the one that Sam keeps calling _the dead guy robe_ even though Dean’s asked him not to probably a hundred times) and quickly crosses the hall to his room, lured by the prospect of climbing under the covers with his angel who’s just recently became an angel in the literal sense again.

Once he’s inside their room and shuts the door, Cas looks up from where he’s sitting on the bed, his gaze intense and instantly turning the temperature in the room up a couple degrees.

Dean swallows and almost takes a step back, feeling strangely exposed. “Cas?”

The angel stands up and stands advancing on Dean, head slightly bowed and eyes smoldering.  Almost like he’s about to strike. “I almost lost you today.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Dean offers, and when his back hits the wall, he realizes he’s been retreating unknowingly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Cas’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Yes, you are.” And then Cas is on him like a windstorm, nearly sweeping Dean away as he attacks him with heated, aggressive kisses that make Dean’s knees go weak. “You’re here,” he breathes into Dean’s neck as he sucks and bites and scratches, harder than ever before, hard enough to leave bruises that will take days to heal, like he needs to mark Dean, stake a claim on Dean’s body like he did with his soul. “And you’re _mine_.”

Arousal skyrocketing inside him at those words, Dean moans, lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud, bares his neck and wordlessly offers himself up for more.

Cas makes a quick process of removing his clothes by simply letting them dissolve into thin air, so Dean hurries to take off his robe before it meets the same fate, and Cas shows his approval by continuing to raise gooseflesh and bruises on every inch of Dean’s skin that he can find with his mouth or fingers.

Dean’s head is spinning from the strength and ferocity of it and there’s not much more he can do but hold on tight and try to remember how to breathe. The task is much more difficult than it might sound.

“Dean,” Cas growls, voice even rougher than usual, and the same can be said about his touch as he grabs Dean by his hips, digging deep into the flesh, and pulls him away from the wall, into free space, pushing and pulling at Dean until he has him exactly where he wants him, and then he fucking _picks him up_ like Dean weighs nothing.

“Cas,” Dean whimpers as he wraps his legs around Cas’s narrow waist and starts grinding down against him without thinking. He’s let Cas manhandle him during sex before, but this is different, Cas is so much stronger than him now, he could overpower Dean without batting an eyelash – Dean’s not exactly letting Cas do anything right now, Cas is just _taking_ and damn, it shouldn’t be so fucking hot.

Cas is only holding Dean with one arm, the other hand free and moving down to position his cock between Dean’s ass cheeks, the blunt head nudging at Dean’s opening impatiently. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, and it’s obscenely filthy coming out of an angel’s mouth, but then, it’s the same mouth that is kissing Dean so hard his lips are already sore.

Dean has a brief moment of clarity where he wants to protest about the lack of prep and lube, but then Cas starts pushing inside him and it goes surprisingly smoothly, no pain at all, not even slight discomfort, just waves and waves of intense, white-hot pleasure that have Dean begging for more, and it must be some kind of angel mojo but Dean honestly doesn’t care as long as Cas doesn’t stop.

And Cas doesn’t stop. Once he’s fully inside Dean, he wastes no time and starts moving, lifting Dean up with inhumanly strong arms until he’s almost all the way out and then slamming him back down and making him scream, and at first Dean tries to cooperate, tries to do his share of the work, but soon he realizes this is Cas’s show, so he just holds on and lets Cas handle him like a rag doll.

“Dean,” Cas says over and over every time his mouth is free to speak, and maybe he says something else too, but Dean is too busy processing the overwhelming pleasure that just keeps on building up inside him until he feels like he’s going to black out completely, and when Cas comes inside him, cock buried deep in Dean’s ass and teeth in his neck, Dean doesn’t even have the strength to make a sound as his own orgasm crashes over him.

He’s as weak as a kitten after that, limbs turned to jelly and eyelids too heavy to hold open, blood still thrumming in his ears, and he’s only vaguely aware of his surroundings, of being carried across the room and placed onto the bed, covered with a blanket. The light is turned off then even though Dean is pretty sure Cas hasn’t moved to the light switch, hasn’t left Dean’s side. Angelic mojo again, seems like.

“I haven’t hurt you, have I?” Cas asks when Dean’s already nearly asleep.

“Fuck no,” he replies, shaking his head weakly because that’s the best he can do right now. If Cas needs more reassurance, he’s either going to have to read it in Dean’s body language or wait until Dean is coherent enough to form full sentences, which  definitely isn’t going to be tonight. “Was awesome.”

“I got a bit possessive,” Cas says, and although Dean doesn’t bother opening his eyes, he can hear the embarrassed, sheepish smile in Cas’s voice.

“Was awesome,” he repeats.

He gets a soft, gentle kiss instead of an answer, one on the mouth, one over each closed eyelid and one on the forehead.

“Gonna sleep now,” he mumbles, already more than halfway there.

“I’ll watch over you,” is the last thing he hears as sleep takes him.

*

Despite his earlier claim that he’s perfectly fine, Dean doesn’t sleep well.

Nightmares come unbidden, images of bloodied and torn skin, of deep, precise cuts, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh, the coppery taste of blood and bitter taste of bile, the sound of ear-piercing screams and choked sobs. None of it is coming from him though, because that’s not what his nightmares are made of. He’s the one holding the blade, he’s the one who does the cutting and the slicing, he’s the one whose heart swells with pride when Alastair’s smooth, oil-slick voice praises his technique and inventiveness. And when Dean looks into his victims’ eyes, he sees his own black-eyed reflection, and only then does he scream too.

But Castiel is there to save him, to drag him out the nightmare just like he dragged him out of Hell, his grip tight as he raises Dean from perdition once again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even without fighting or killing, there are no calm and uneventful days in the lives of Castiel and Dean Winchester.

“This is stupid.”

Castiel closes his eyes and takes several breaths. In, out. In, out. In, out. Apparently even for angels there is no such thing as the patience of a saint, or if there is, it simply doesn’t apply to dealing with Dean Winchester. Somehow the second option sounds more likely, what with Dean being the one who constantly defies God’s plan and destiny and everything else that, according to the hunter, falls under the category of _utter and complete crap_.

There are moments when Castiel really wishes Dean was more… easy to handle.

This, unfortunately, is one of these moments. It turns out that trying to teach Dean the basics of meditation is not as easy as Castiel imagined. And Castiel imagined it would be very, very hard.

After taking one last deep, calming breath, Castiel reopens his eyes and trains them on Dean who is sitting cross-legged on the mat opposite him. “Dean, please, try to concentrate.”

The man wriggles. “Why exactly are we doing this again?”

Dean’s already asked the question five times over the course of the last twenty minutes and each time it’s harder to answer without resorting to verbal or physical abuse. “Because you need to learn how to control yourself better without having to ventilate your frustration with violence. Or sex. Or alcohol. Don’t forget that your inability to remain calm and composed while living in the bunker with more than two people was the reason you got yourself captured by Abaddon and then Bartholomew.“

“Hey, that’s–“

“That’s a fact,” Castiel doesn’t allow any interruptions, even though he knows Dean would be technically right to protest and defend himself; the fact that one of Abaddon’s demons accidentally ran into him on that day wasn’t exactly Dean’s fault. But that doesn’t erase the problem of Dean having anger management issues that could use some fixing. “And even if nothing had happened that day, it still wouldn’t change the fact that sometimes you can be one really difficult roommate. You will do us all a favor if you at least _try_ to make this work.”

Dean frowns and pouts. “You make it sound like I’m some grumpy old guy who shouts at the neighbors to clean up their doorstep or lower the volume.”

“If I remember correctly, it was just two days ago that you made a scene in the kitchen because one of us forgot to do the dishes,” Castiel reminds his partner with a gleeful smile. “And just this morning you threatened to throw Kevin out of the bunker if he didn’t stop playing his music so loud.”

Dean grimaces, having enough self-respect not to try to deny any of the accusations. “Okay, so maybe I get a bit upset sometimes, but it’s nothing a good fight or a good fuck couldn’t fix.”

“Exactly. And what if there comes a time when you won’t have either at your disposal? What will you do then, Dean? Start throwing punches at whoever stands the nearest?”

He gets no response this time, Dean hanging his head in defeat.

Seeing his chance, Castiel strikes while the iron is hot. “You get twitchy, unstable, undisciplined. And that makes you dangerous.”

“Hey! I’ve got plenty of discipline!” Dean appears to be genuinely offended. “If there’s one thing everyone’s agreed on about me, it’s the whole _good little soldier_ deal.”

“Yes. In battle, under pressure, your self-discipline is truly remarkable,” Castiel agrees readily because this is indisputable. “The problem lies elsewhere. It’s when you have too much free time on your hands, or when the stress level remains quite low but lasts a long time. That’s when you become erratic and temperamental, that’s when you become dangerous not to your enemies but to your friends. Dean, you’re angry almost all the time.”

“It’s not like I mean to,” Dean mutters, again looking down in shame.

“I know,” Castiel hurries to placate, because he’s not doing this to take Dean through another guilt trip, the man’s had enough of those for more than a lifetime. “I know that, and I want to help, because I believe this can be helped. So, all I ask you to do is that you try this. If it works, it’ll make things so much easier for all of us, but especially for you. It might help you find your peace of mind.”

Dean blows out a huff of air. “I don’t think that’s possible, Cas.”

“Just try it. Please.”

Sighing heavily, Dean nods. “Alright, fine, you son of a bitch. But don’t think those puppy dog eyes are gonna work on me every time.” He shifts on the mat, straightens his back, raises his head. “So what am I supposed to do here, Buddha?”

“Just close your eyes and do what I tell you. Without comments.”

With an expression that clearly says _I can’t believe I’m really doing this_ , Dean lets his eyes fall closed and waits for instructions. That alone is a success.

“Now let’s focus on your breathing. Don’t try to control it, just breathe. Breathe and listen, feel, learn your body’s rhythm.”

He waits, half-expecting Dean to start talking again, but it seems like the man is really trying to be good this time.

“Very good. Now start counting the breaths.” He looks at Dean’s falling and rising chest, speaks in sync with the inhales and exhales. “In is one, out is two, in is three, out is four… count it in your mind. Every time your mind strays off the counting, start again.”

Surprising Castiel, Dean does as he’s told, he breathes and counts in his head, and Castiel can feel the vibrations coming off him transform and change, from sharp rocky edges and wild, roaring waterfalls to soft, green grass and calm ponds without a ripple on the surface.

It seems that once Dean has accepted his task, he’s not really having many problems executing it.

Well, since Dean has always been and will always, to some point, remain an unsolvable enigma, Castiel shouldn’t really be surprised by this turn of events at all.

*

Castiel makes a point of meditating with Dean every day, at the same time and at the same place, if possible.

Without wanting to sound overly optimistic, Castiel thinks it’s safe to say that Dean’s anger management issues and his general restlessness is getting better by the day. When Dean is safely out of earshot, Sam, Kevin and Ezekiel all tell Castiel they agree with his assessment.

*

“Think of something that angers you.” That doesn’t sound exactly right so Castiel quickly specifies, “Try something small, like a fly running up your arm and tickling your skin.” It wouldn’t do them any good if Dean started with things at the top of his list.

Dean nods, not opening his eyes. “Got it.”

“Now focus on it, on the dark tangle of energy it forms inside you. Find it in you, look at it, examine it very closely.”

It takes more time now before Dean nods, signaling that he’s done what Castiel asked him to, but it’s still sooner than Castiel expected.

“Good. Very good. Now I want you to start entangling it. Don’t hurry. Work slowly, take your time. Untie the knots one by one, even out the lines, until the tangle disappears.”

Minutes tick by slowly, then Dean nods his head again. “Done.”

“Very good,” Castiel praises him, pride swelling inside his chest. “Now finish the rest of the cycle like I taught you and when you’re ready, you can come back to me.”

When Dean opens his eyes some time later, he watches Castiel curiously. “So that’s what I’m supposed to do when I get mad? Untangle?”

“Yes. Once you’re practiced enough, you’ll be able do it with much bigger issues, and it’ll be faster and easier for you to do so. You’re a very fast learner, so I suppose it won’t take much time for you to reach that level of proficiency.”

Dean chuckles. “Look at yourself, proud teacher Cas.” The words are taunting, but they are said with fondness.

“I believe I am entitled to some amount of pride.”

Dean’s expression grows serious. “Yeah, I guess I should really thank you for being so patient with me.”

“Well, it’s in my interest, too.”

“Right. But, uh, I should thank you anyway. So thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They sit facing each other on the mat, their gazes locked. Dean seems relaxed and at ease, a small, content smile playing on his lips.

Then, suddenly, the smile widens and morphs into something mischievous, roguish, the corners of Dean’s mouth twisting upwards and crinkles forming around his dangerously glinting eyes.

Trouble is coming.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Dean drawls as he stands up gracefully and crosses the gym to lock the door from the inside before coming back to Castiel, kneeling right in front of him and immediately drawing him into a kiss.

It’s a slow one, languid and very thorough, Dean’s tongue carefully, intimately exploring Castiel’s mouth while he holds Castiel close and still with one large hand splayed at the back of his head, the other resting at the small of Castiel’s back, pressing them closer together yet.

Dean alternates between plunging his tongue deep into Castiel’s mouth and tenderly licking, nibbling and sucking at his lips while his hands caress Castiel’s face or card through his hair. He takes his time, like he always does when he’s in charge, because despite Dean’s whole tough macho act, out of the two of them it’s actually him who’s more into the gentle, light touches and staring into your lover’s eyes and the kissing and petting and everything else that he would probably never admit to liking in public, everything that he would just shrug off as _that stupid romantic crap_.

Castiel briefly wonders whether that will change one day, whether there will ever come a time when Dean will openly acknowledge and accept his gentler, softer side.

Dean’s hands slide under Castiel’s t-shirt, pulling the fabric up and Castiel lifts his hands and lets Dean pull the t-shirt over his head.

“Get comfortable,” Dean murmurs; soft, full lips moving against the sensitive skin of Castie’s neck as he gently pushes at Castiel’s chest until Castiel is lying on his back. Castiel lets his eyes fall closed when he feels Dean’s mouth on his neck again, the contrast between the softness of his lips and the scratchiness of his five-o’clock shadow electrifying, sending sparkles running through his veins and down to his rapidly filling cock.

“Dean,” he says on a breathy, shaky moan when Dean’s mouth closes around a nipple with a slight scrape of teeth, making Castiel arch his back for more.

He wants to touch Dean so he puts his palms on the man’s shoulders, feeling the muscles move under the thin t-shirt Dean is wearing as Dean shifts his attention from one nipple to the other. “Take it off,” he begs, tugging at the shirt, longing for the feel of naked skin under his hands.

Dean lets go of a hardened nipple, pulling at the small nub with his teeth gently before raising his head to look into Castiel’s eyes. “Nah, you just lie back, let me take care of you.”

So Dean’s in one of _those_ moods. Castiel lets his hands fall back to the mat by his sides and closes his eyes again, mentally preparing himself for the concentrated, focused intensity of Dean’s full attention directed solely on him.

Dean is moving downwards, but his progress is tortuously slow, so many stops and detours of his fingers and mouth on Castiel’s skin that it seems like he’ll never even get as far as below Castiel’s navel.

“Dean, please.”

A low, rumbling chuckle accompanied by the rough drag of Dean’s stubble over the dip under Castiel’s ribs and the smooth slide of Dean’s barely-there fingertips over Castiel’s side. No sign of things speeding up in the foreseeable future.

“Dean, just…”

“Where’s your patience and self-control now, angel?” Dean asks and trails a wet circle around Castiel’s navel before hardening the tip of his tongue and dipping inside.

“It’s – ah, Dean, please… What?”

“Calm down, count your breaths,” Dean speaks with his lips still pressed against Castiel’s belly while his fingers – finally! – move lower, making Castiel shiver uncontrollably as they skim down his flanks and slip under the waistband of his sweatpants.

”Ah, just touch me, will you?”

“You’re so pretty when you get all worked up like this,” Dean observes but thankfully he takes mercy on Castiel and pulls his pants and underwear off before settling between Castiel’s wantonly spread legs. Castiel watches how Dean practically devours him with his eyes, licking his lips slowly as his hungry gaze travels over Castiel’s naked body. But he doesn’t touch.

“Dean…”

“Cas, how about you calm down, find your inner peace of mind?”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I like to watch you get all squirmy and desperate,” Dean replies in a husky voice and runs the very tip of his index finger over the head of Castiel’s erection, the touch so light it’s barely perceptible and yet shooting spikes of intense pleasure straight into Castiel’s core. That feather-soft touch is absolutely maddening, and Dean knows it. “Come on, Cas, try to do your mediation stuff, try to fight this, try to take control of yourself.”

“Why?” Castiel whines, canting his hips up in an attempt to get Dean to touch him more.

Dean’s strong palm presses onto his hip and pushes him back down into the mat, holding him there. “Because you’re gonna lose,” he says with a wicked grin, using the fingers of his free hand to very gently cup Castiel’s balls. It’s too much and not nearly enough at the same time.

“I’m not,” Castiel protests, setting his mind on the goal just to prove Dean wrong. “Just watch me.”

“Oh, I am watching you.” The way Dean is looking at him should be illegal. “And I’m gonna watch you fall apart.”

Then, careful to maintain the eye contact, Dean wraps his perfect, sensual lips around Castiel’s cock, swallowing him down to the root in one go, and _sucks_.

At that moment, Castiel realizes he really has no chance to win this no matter how hard he tries because none of his usual mechanisms, none of his defenses work on Dean, they never have. “Well, fuck it,” he mutters, spreads his legs wider and puts his arms under his head to support it so he can look at Dean bobbing up and down, lips stretched wide around his shaft as he works it with equal skill and enthusiasm.

Because even if he’s going to lose this match, he’s definitely going to enjoy it.

*

Kevin puts down the tablet with a heavy sigh and rubs at his red-rimmed eyes.

“Tired?” Castiel asks, more for conversation’s sake than anything else; he can see that the Prophet is exhausted even without using his angelic powers.

Kevin nods weakly.

“Hold still.” This isn’t the first time they’re doing this and so Kevin doesn’t even flinch when Castiel lifts a finger to touch the boy’s forehead, taking his fatigue away. “There. Better?”

Kevin nods, color returning to his cheeks. “Yeah, thanks.” He chuckles. “You know, there was a time when I couldn’t imagine anything more tiring and terrible than studying for my SATs.” At Castiel’s uncomprehending look, he explains, “It’s a test you have to pass to get admitted to college.”

“Oh. I see.” And was that sentiment in Kevin’s voice? “You miss it,” Castiel ventures, certain that it indeed was sentiment.

“Well, yeah.” Kevin shrugs and averts his gaze, going back to staring at the tablet from Bartholomew. “Not like it matters. I know there’s no way out of this life.”

At the moment, Castiel doesn’t see a way out for the boy either, but that certainly doesn’t mean that there isn’t one. “You shouldn’t lose hope.”

Kevin’s head jerks up, eyes full of surprise as he stares at Castiel for long seconds before he goes back to the tablet without uttering a word.

Not sure what else to say, Castiel stays silent, leaving Kevin to his work.

He senses Dean’s presence before he even hears the approaching footsteps and he looks up from Kevin’s notes just in time to see Dean walking through the library door, carrying a large tray with two plates full of something that looks and smells very, very delicious.

“Time for a break, you two,” Dean announces, placing the tray on the table and distributing the plates – one to Kevin, who pushes the tablet away and grabs it with a muttered “Thanks” and the other to Castiel. “I made chili, it should be good. Sam and Zeke said it was good.”

“It is good,” Kevin nods, mouth stuffed full and eyes closed as he chews with evident satisfaction.

“See?” Dean grins at Castiel. “Come on, man. Dig in already.”

“I don’t need to eat anymore.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Dean rolls his eyes and pulls up a chair, sprawling in it opposite Castiel and Kevin. “But you like spicy stuff. Trust me, Cas, you’re gonna love it.”

“Alright.” Castiel takes the spoon that Dean is waving in front of his face and starts eating. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he takes the first spoonful, so he quickly says, heartfelt, “Perfect.”

Dean’s grin widens, bringing out those eye crinkles at Castiel loves so much. “See? Just because you don’t _have to_ eat doesn’t mean you should miss on the fun.”

Instead of replying, Castiel keeps on eating. He doesn’t have to pretend his pleasure for Dean’s sake, the taste is truly exquisite.

At first, Castiel was afraid that getting his Grace back would take his ability to enjoy earthly pleasures away from him, that food would taste like nothing but molecules again, but luckily that’s not what happened. All these things that he used to feel as a human, all the urges and wants and needs, all the feelings and sensations, they still remain. The only difference is that now he is able to control or suppress them if he wants to. (When he mentioned it to Dean a couple of days ago, Dean laughed and muttered something about Gabriel’s sweet tooth.)

For a while, Dean just watches them both eat with a pleased expression, then stands up. “Beer?”

Both Kevin and Castiel grunt and nod their agreement and Dean brings three bottles from the small fridge standing by the wall, uncapping them and placing them on the table. He sits back, stretches his legs comfortably and takes a long pull on his beer. He looks happy, just like he always does when he’s taking care of the people he loves.

“So, how’s the translation going?” He asks after a while.

Kevin swallows loudly before answering. “Slow.”

“Well, that’s hardly anything new.”

“No, I mean slower than the previous tablets. It’s like the handwriting is different, I haven’t really gotten used to it yet.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow at that. “So you’re saying that God scribbles?”

Kevin shrugs and throws a slightly worried glance at Castiel, as if unsure whether talking about God this way is okay with him. “I guess, kinda, yeah.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel assures the boy quickly. “I’m not going to burn you at the stake for blasphemy or anything.”

Dean chuckles, then turns his attention back to Kevin. “So what’d you translate so far?”

“Not much. Just like the other tablets, it starts with a foreword. It says pride comes before a fall, arrogance is dangerous, too much power corrupts even the purest of souls, that kind of stuff.”

“We think God was well aware of the possibility of a corrupt angel like Metatron trying to take Heaven for himself once He left,” Castiel supplies when Dean just stares at them in puzzlement. “That’s why he wrote this tablet himself and hid it from the angels’ eyes. I have no idea how Bartholomew got his hands on it, but I’m sure one of his human followers must’ve found it somewhere.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean nods impatiently. “But it’s gonna help us, right? Fix the mess upstairs, I mean.”

“We believe so, yes,” Castiel says because Kevin is again occupied with the chili. “I think we should expect another set of Trials, one to be performed by an angel I presume.”

Dean’s face hardens, sadness creeping into his eyes. “Great. ‘Cause we’ve had such good experience with those so far.” He gives Castiel a long, stern look. “You better not even consider doing them.”

Castiel would be lying if he said the idea hasn’t crossed his mind, but he’s discussed this with Ezekiel already and he’s made his mind. “Don't worry, I won’t be the one doing the Trials, Dean.” He doesn’t say that the main reason for that is the fear of screwing it all up again, though, and just enjoys the relief on Dean’s face instead.

“Good,” Dean says, scraping off the label on his bottle absently. “’Cause I’d have to beat you up and lock you in the dungeon with Crowley if you did.”

Castiel feels himself smiling in challenge. “I’d like to see you try.”

Heat sparkles in Dean’s eyes. “Oh, really,” he whispers, voice rough and low.

“Guys, stop that!” Kevin groans, covering his eyes in mock disgust. “Or go to your room.”

Dean blushes slightly and focuses his attention on his bottle again. “Sorry.”

“Yes, sorry,” Castiel adds his own apology and they finish the rest of their meal in silence.

When they’re done, Kevin pushes his plate aside and takes the tablet again, frowning in concentration as he stares at it while Castiel and Dean look on because at the moment, there’s not really anything else for them to do.

The waiting is not much fun.

Dean rocks in his chair and sips on his beer slowly. His lips wrapped around the bottleneck in a very tempting pout remind Castiel of the end of their meditation session earlier today. Castiel's whole body still tingles pleasantly at the memory, and somehow the course of his thoughts must show on his face because Dean suddenly grins at him and starts sucking at the bottle in a way that has absolutely _nothing_ to do with drinking.

Not wanting to be defeated again, Castiel retaliates by gradually, inconspicuously raising the temperature in Dean’s immediate proximity, degree by degree until Dean grumbles something about broken air-conditioning and takes his shirt off, revealing the plain black t-shirt underneath.

It’s a good look on Dean; the man wears too many layers for Castiel’s taste. He understands why he does it, the extra layers mean extra protection from both weather and attack, and they help conceal the numerous weapons Dean usually carries on his person, but still… The body that is underneath all those layers is too good-looking to be hidden like that all the time.

Satisfied, Castiel lifts his eyebrows and sends Dean a look that says _your move_.

Dean takes another very provocative pull on his beer, puts the bottle down and flexes his muscles, all the while holding Castiel’s gaze.

“Guys, come on, I said stop that,” Kevin whines before burying his face in his hands.

“Sorry, Kev,” Dean says, not sounding very apologetic, and gets up.

“We’re leaving now,” Castiel stands up too and follows Dean out of the room.

It’s time for round two.

***

“Thank you, sister.” Ezekiel puts the phone down and turns to the rest of Team Free Will 2.0. “I just spoke to Muriel.”

“And?” Dean asks, resting his chin on his hand, the fingers of his other hand tapping impatiently against the pages of the open book he’s studying.

Ezekiel takes a seat at the opposite end of the library table and throws a slightly nervous glance in Castiel’s direction. “Our predictions were right, brother. After Bartholomew’s death, many of his followers started to doubt the righteousness of his plan. And judging from what Muriel heard, even Malachi is having problems maintaining authority over his soldiers.”

“Suits him well,” Kevin comments with a satisfied smile and next to him, Sam chuckles and nods.

Ezekiel keeps talking. “Now that Malachi has the only functioning angel faction left, he has no big enemy, no one to threaten his soldiers with. It’s not _follow me or be killed by Bartholomew’s soldiers_ anymore, so they don’t have to flock around him out of fear now. He’s losing his hold on them and angels are leaving him. Some of them just try to hide, but many are looking for a peaceful way out of this, more and more come to our side.”

“Ready to be obedient soldiers again,” Castiel mutters bitterly which gets him a surprised frown from Dean.

Ezekiel doesn’t seem surprised or disconcerted by Castiel’s reaction. “Word of a new faction has begun to spread among the angels, a faction that stands on humanity’s side, on the side of peace and reconciliation and forgiveness, and slowly but surely, the number of those willing to follow us has begun to rise.”

“That’s good news, right?” Kevin asks, eyes flicking from Ezekiel to Castiel as if waiting for confirmation.

“Yeah, Cas, shouldn’t you be happy?” Sam joins the young Prophet. “I get that you’d like to see the angels making their own choices all the time, but don’t you see that this is just the beginning? This is new to them, they have to take small, baby steps, and they’re gonna need help.”

“And thank God that help is gonna be you and Zeke,” Dean finishes, sending a thankful look to his brother. “Seriously, Cas. This is good.”

Forcing a smile that feels fake even to himself, Castiel nods. “Yes. Good.”

***

“Cas, man, it’s so late that it’s more like not-so-early in the morning. Come to bed, get some sleep.”

Sitting at the desk with his back to Dean who’s already in bed (and on the side closest to the door, like always), Castiel allows himself a grimace before schooling his features into something more appropriate and turning in his chair to face his partner. “You know I can’t, I’ve got work to do. You go to sleep, I’ll join you shortly.”

Dean puts down the book he’s been reading, pulls up his legs and wraps his arms around them, resting his chin on top of his knees as he fixes Castiel with a hard stare. “Don’t give me that crap, Cas. That’s what you said yesterday, and the day before, but I know for a fact that you didn’t get a wink of sleep.”

Desperately wanting to avoid Dean’s angry glare, Castiel averts his eyes even though it’s practically as good as pleading guilty.

Dean snorts. “God, you’re unbelievable. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

It’s a good question, and Castiel supposes deep down he knew he couldn’t actually fool Dean, but maybe it was just easier for him to pretend. “Dean, I know this must be making you uncomfortable–“

Another snort, louder and angrier than before, and Castiel still doesn’t dare look up. “Uncomfortable? Try freaked out! Or, I don’t know, betrayed! You’ve been lying to me, Cas!”

That finally makes Castiel snap his head back up. “This is nothing of import! It’s just sleep. I’m an angel, Dean; I don’t need to sleep anymore.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Dean’s voice is dripping sarcasm. “What else will you decide you don’t need anymore, huh? How long before you end things between us because _I_ am nothing of import?”

“So that’s what this is about? Us?”

Standing up, Dean spreads his arms. “Well, yeah! You’ve got your wings back, you stupid son of a bitch. You don’t need me anymore.”

That really hurts. “ _Need_ you? Of course I need you, I’ll always need you. I love you, you stupid… you!”

Dean sits back down, suddenly looking drained. His eyes are suspiciously wet, glinting with unshed tears, and Castiel can feel the turmoil of emotions churning inside the hunter. “Yeah, you say that now. But look at us, man!” He shuts his eyes, shakes his head again. “See, and that’s just it. You’re not a man anymore. You’re an angel, I’m _just a man_. Hell, you said so yourself once.”

Castiel winces at the memory of what definitely wasn’t one of his best moments. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I think it does. You’re this… this celestial wavelength or whatever, you’re an entirely different being. You don’t need to sleep. You don’t need to eat. You don’t get sick or hung over. You don’t age. I do all of that stuff. I piss and shit and I get bad morning breath sometimes and if by some miracle no monster ganks me now, I’m gonna die as an old, wrinkly, ugly man one day.” He pauses, having run out of breath. “You can’t seriously want to stick around for any of that. Not really. And even if you think you do now, that’s gonna change one day, and I can’t blame you for that, Cas, because it would only be the right, reasonable thing to do.”

“Fine. That’s enough.” Castiel stands up, hands on his hips as he hovers over Dean’s sitting form. “Of all the stupid, idiotic things you’ve ever said – and believe me, Dean, you’ve said quite a lot – this is without contest the stupidest.”

A sound bubbles up Dean’s throat, half-laugh, half-sob. “Yeah? Then tell me how wrong I am.”

Castiel sinks onto the mattress next to Dean, keeping some space between them because for some reason he thinks it is be more fitting in this situation. “You’re so very, very wrong.”

“Gee, thanks. That totally helped, I feel comforted now.”

“Just listen.” Castiel waits for Dean to nod his consent before continuing. “You’re right, my new… condition _could_ come to alienate us if we’re not careful, if we don’t work on our relationship.”

Groaning, Dean covers his eyes with one hand. “Fuck, we’re living in a freaking soap opera.”

“Shut up. I admit I’ve been a little… distant lately, and I haven’t been completely honest with you. But trust me, I only did it because I thought it would freak you out less than knowing I simply gave up on sleeping for the time being. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“The no sleeping or no lying?”

“The no lying part. The sleeping… I’ll sleep if I can, but you can’t expect me to waste the time when it could be used for research or creating battle strategies.”

“There’s always gonna be need for research and battle strategies, Cas,” Dean says. “That’s the fucking problem. You have power to do more than I ever could, I can’t just force you to tone it down, to make yourself weaker and slower than you could be.”

“No, not weaker. Not slower. That is not how I see it. Not anymore. There is power in being human, Dean. More than you can imagine. The strength of human emotion, the depth of the human experience… Has it ever occurred to you that sometimes angels might actually envy _you_?”

At first, Dean looks shocked and just stares at Castiel, dumbfounded. “Uh… Anna said so, but…”

“Well, she was right. Being human… it’s not always just a burden, Dean. It’s also a gift, a privilege. Why do you think God loved you the most?”

Dean snorts. “He had a hell of a way of showing it, then.”

Castiel shrugs Dean’s comment off. “That’s not the point. Now to the topic of you growing old and wrinkly…” He smiles. “Dean, I’ve seen you in Hell. I’ve seen you torn and frayed, twisted and deformed, I’ve seen you torture souls and draw pleasure from it.” Dean flinches at those words, but Castiel ignores that and goes on. “I’ve seen you at your worst and I still fell in love with you. Do you really think some wrinkles and gray hair is going to change that?”

Dean remains silent, biting on his lip as he thinks about it. “What about you, then?” He asks finally. “Once I’m dead.”

The answer to that is easy. “Then I’ll return to Heaven where we’ll meet again.”

“Oh.” Dean frowns and takes some more time to think. “I guess we better reopen Heaven for business, then. Because I’m not setting foot in that damn place without you, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Castiel nods solemnly and leans in for a short, sweet kiss. “Now go to sleep, please.”

“And you?”

Castiel opens his mouth to say he’ll join Dean in a short while, but then he remembers his promise not to lie anymore. “Not tonight, Dean. The meeting with the angels willing to listen to us is tomorrow, I have to have my speech ready.”

“You already do,” Dean protests but allows Castiel to push him back into bed and tuck him under the covers. “I’ve seen you write and rewrite it like twenty times already.”

“It has to be perfect.”

Dean grimaces, but finally he gives a slight nod. “Alright, Martin Luther King. But once that feathery peace rally is over, I’m personally making sure you get a good night’s sleep.”

“Thank you, Dean.” After placing a soft kiss on Dean’s forehead, Castiel goes back to his speech.

He rewrites it seven more times before the night is over.

*

The late afternoon sun’s rays illuminate the throng of angels gathered at the snow-covered plain.

Leaning against the Impala and huddled in a warm winter coat, Dean nudges Castiel who’s standing next to him. “Huh. When Zeke said many would come today I thought he meant like maybe fifty, sixty of them. But this? There must be hundreds of them.”

Castiel’s mind does the math quickly; he doesn’t even have to look, he feels the presence of each of his brethren in his soul. “Five hundred and forty seven exactly, not counting me, Ezekiel and Muriel. And you, of course, since you’re not an angel,” he adds, not sure why. Probably because he can’t bear the silence, the waiting.

Dean, naturally, doesn’t fail to notice that. “Cas, don’t tell me you have the jitters, man.”

“Of course not. Why would I–“

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “Cas, come on. You’re a bundle of nerves.”

Sighing, Castiel begrudgingly admits, “Maybe.”

Dean’s reaction is unexpected: he starts snickering.

“This isn’t funny, Dean.”

Shrugging, Dean dissents, “It is a little funny. Sorry,” he apologizes when Castiel shows his displeasure by shooting him an angry glare, “it’s just… you, you’ve got your halo back, you’ve got your badass wings, you’re practically indestructible. And you’re having a stage fright.”

“I’m not indestructible. And this has nothing to do with being human or angel. I’ve had my doubts and fears before, even at the very beginning, you know that.” He recalls that late October afternoon, sitting on a bench at a children’s playground and confiding in Dean about his doubts. It feels like a lifetime ago, so much has changed since then. “See, we’re not that different after all. I am immune neither to insecurity nor diffidence.”

Dean’s expression becomes serious, all amusement gone and replaced with sympathy. “You know you’ve got nothing to worry about, right? It’s just a speech, and it’s not like this is the first time you’re addressing the bunch, either. What’s the worst thing that could happen, huh? They boo you off the stage? So what?”

“I wouldn’t feel this way if all that was at stake was my pride,” Castiel shakes his head tiredly and moves nearer to his partner, seeking comfort in the closeness, in the warmth and solidity of his body. “But there’s more than that. Have you noticed the way they look at me?”

Dean nods curtly. “Yeah. Aside from a couple of mistrustful douchebags, they seem to be relieved to see you, and they look at you with respect. And isn’t that good?”

“No, it’s not!”

“Hey, calm down, Cas. No reason to shout.”

Slightly calmed by Dean’s firm grip on his shoulder, Castiel continues speaking in a lower voice as not to disturb the others. “They’re looking at me like they’re waiting for counsel, for guidance. Like they trust me to know what to do. Like they expect me to be their leader.” He shakes his head. “I can’t be that for them anymore, Dean. I’ve tried in the past, and it never ended well. And even if I believed my leadership could do them any good… you know I don’t want that anymore. I _won’t_ do that. I’m not the man they want me to be, I’m not their savior.”

Dean turns his head so he can meet Castiel’s eyes. “Then you better tell them right away that you’re not gonna be the one to lead them. Say it loud and clear. It’s fair to both you and them. They deserve to know.”

“I know. But how should I tell them?”

Snorting in disbelief, Dean asks, “You’re asking me this _now_? It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think? And anyway, I don’t really think you should be talking about this kind of stuff with me. You should’ve talked this through with one of the brainy guys. Sam, Zeke, Kevin. I’m not the one you should be asking for advice.”

Of all of the things that Dean does that annoy Castiel – and there are many, from Dean’s off-key, loud singing to his irritating and slightly disgusting habit of talking with his mouth full – this is probably the worst. The casual ease with which Dean refers to himself as being less smart than the others, the way he always disparages himself and his skills and abilities… One day Castiel is going to have to deal with that, get that notion of ridiculously low self-worth out of Dean’s head.

But not now, and not today. There will be an entire lifetime for that later.

“Just take it easy, man. You’re gonna do just fine,” Dean says, confident.

Castiel wants to believe that, and on some level he does; he knows he’s got his speech thought-out and memorized to the last word; he’s not going to flub it. But somehow that still doesn’t stop his hands from shaking or his breath from hitching in his throat.

Sighing, Dean pushes himself away from the car and pulls Castiel from it too, moving him around until Castiel is sitting at the hood, Dean standing in front of him. “Close your eyes.”

“Dean?”

“Just do it.”

“Alright.” Castiel is aware of the many angelic gazes that are trained on them all the time, but he trusts Dean to watch over him, to take care of him, and so does as he’s asked.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Dean’s deep, rumbling voice says and for some reason that simple praise seems to calm Castiel down considerably. “Good, man. You’re doing good.” Dean’s boots shuffle in the rutty snow that crunches under his soles as Dean moves closer and puts both hands on Castiel’s head, palms covering his eyes and strong fingers branching out, settling firmly against Castiel’s skull and pressing. Not hard enough to cause any discomfort, but hard enough to be truly felt. It’s like a protective helmet, only better because it’s warm and alive and it’s Dean.

“This feels… good,” Castiel ventures.

“Yeah. Sammy used to love this when he was a kid and he got nervous about something,” Dean explains, fingers moving slightly through Castiel’s hair, rubbing and pressing. “He’d freak out over some stupid school project or something, say he’d screw up… This used to calm him down like nothing else.”

“I can imagine.”

“And you know what? He never screwed up. Not once. Always came back with a big goofy grin and an A+.” Dean’s voice is warm with a proud smile that Castiel can see without having to open his eyes. “And you’re not gonna screw this up either, Cas. Right?”

Despite himself, Castiel feels encouraged by Dean’s show of support and faith, and nods. “Right.”

That earns him a surprise kiss followed by a gentle pat on the cheek as Dean takes his hands off him. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he grins.

Ezekiel chooses that moment to approach them, waiting respectfully several steps aside until they acknowledge his presence. “Castiel. It’s time.”

Sharing one last deep look with Dean, drawing as much strength from his lover as possible, Castiel turns and follows Ezekiel towards the small stage platform they had prepared for this special occasion.

“Hey, Cas!” Dean calls after him. “Kick it in the ass!” He laughs. “Cool, dude, it actually rhymes!”

"Yes, you're a great poet, Dean."

And with that, Castiel climbs onto the platform where he's supposed to address his audience.

Before he speaks, he takes several moments to look over the angels again, to watch their curious, expectant expressions, the trust in their eyes, the search for answers, the demand for guidance.

A couple of steps behind Castiel stand Ezekiel and Muriel, both looking at him with trust and support. Castiel even feels the feathery tip of Ezekiel’s wing brush against him, the gesture conveying comfort.

Then, slightly aside the main crowd of angels, standing alone by the Impala, is Dean, and Castiel doesn’t even have to look at the man’s face or into his heart to feel the strong, unconditional love coming from him, offering Castiel everything that he needs.

He’s ready.

Castiel takes a long, deep breath, and speaks. “Brothers and sisters. First of all I have to thank you all for coming here. I know many of you, and unfortunately I am sure that all of you know me, thanks to my past mistakes and errors. But the past isn’t what’s important now. What’s important is the future, what we decide to do with it, and with the freedom of choice we’ve been given by our Father.”

There are surprised and even offended whispers and murmurs in the crowd and Castiel silences them with a raised hand. “Yes, you heard right. Our Father left us, He left us alone, and many of us despaired because we missed His direction, the strength and solidity of His Word. The feeling of knowing that we're doing what we’re supposed to be doing. Without Him, we became lost. We started fighting each other, we started siding with demons, we started destroying His legacy.”

“Heaven became a place of betrayal and intrigue instead of a place of peace. We fought brother against brother, and in that struggle for power and dominance, we forgot our true purpose, the one true reason why our Father created us: to protect mankind, His favorite creation.”

“How do you know He still wants us to do that?” A question comes from the crowd, supported by the murmurs of approval from the others. “He left, didn’t He?”

Castiel smiles, pleased by the question since it’s a big one, and more importantly, one that he can honestly answer. “He did leave, yes. But not without leaving us some hints, signs as to what He wishes us to do. If you know my story, then you know how I rebelled against Heaven when our leaders wanted to start the Apocalypse. I disobeyed direct orders from Zachariah and offered my help to Sam and Dean Winchester instead. I was punished for my disobedience that day at the hands of the archangel Raphael – I was killed.”

“But I was brought back. I was brought back by God himself, and it was He also who saved the Winchester brothers from Lucifer. And as if that wasn’t proof enough, He brought me back once again, after I was killed a second time, this time by Lucifer.”

He offers the angels a warm, sincere smile. “By these actions, our Father has shown us clearly what He wishes us to do – to protect the humans, to stand on the side of free will, to strive for peace, not war. For love, not hate. To be creatures of compassion and mercy and love.” He pauses, waits a few moments. “If you wish to walk down that path, you’ve come to the right place, brothers and sisters. Our goal is to unite all the warring factions, to stop the senseless quarrels, and to find a way to return home, to Heaven. And I strongly believe that if we work together, we can manage that.”

“And if we do?” Another angel from the audience asks. “If we do come home… then what?”

That’s another good question, but this time, the answer is not that easy or obvious. “That, my brothers and sisters, is for us to decide. Each and every one of us can help make a difference. We have a chance to make things right, to settle our debts, to atone for our sins, to again become what we once were – protectors of the good and just, guardians, warriors of Light, evangelists of love and reconciliation and peace. So, ask yourselves: is that what you want?”

The angels don’t clap their hands, they don’t applaud or cheer. They spread their wings, feathers against feathers, and the air buzzes with their energy, electricity sparkling as their excitement grows, as they send out thoughts of accordance, of peace and unity. The atmosphere is contagious and the enthusiasm spreads, rolling over the crowd like a flood.

“Will you lead us, brother?”

And this is the question that Castiel’s been dreading more than anything else. He looks at the expectant faces of the angels standing before him, so eager to follow. But they cannot follow him. After throwing a quick glance at Dean who nods in approval, Castiel speaks again. “I am truly, deeply honored by the trust that you give me despite my many, many faults and errors. But I cannot accept that, I cannot be the leader you are looking for. I made my own choice, and that choice is to stay here, on Earth.”

When the crowd starts to get louder again, he quickly adds, “I will assist you in retaking Heaven, of course, and I will offer my help and advice if it is needed. But my place is here.” His eyes rest on Dean as he speaks, seeking inspiration. “Here, with the man I love, the man who taught me what I’m about to teach you now – that the world is what we make of it with our choices.”

Castiel can see Dean look away, flushing with embarrassment as the whole crowd turns its attention to the man, regarding him with new respect and esteem.

“But who is going to lead us if not you, Castiel?” Another question comes, from many angels at once.

Thankfully, this answer is easy. Castiel beckons Ezekiel to step forward. “I have a candidate right here who is more than worthy of your trust. Brothers, sisters, please hear what Ezekiel has to say to you.”

After that, when Ezekiel starts talking, Castiel gets off the stage platform and walks back to Dean and listens to the rest of Ezekiel’s beautiful, inspiring and very warmly received speech in his lover’s embrace.

Because that’s where he belongs.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean celebrates his birthday and things finally get moving on the "reopening Heaven" front, but since this is Dean's life, it's not all just rainbows and puppies.

Dean wakes up to the feeling of having a pair of slick, warm lips wrapped tightly around his cock, and when he rubs his sleepy eyes and squints down, he sees Cas crouched between his legs, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Cas? ‘S up?” He slurs, not quite fully awake yet.

To speak, Cas has to let go of Dean’s erection, but he puts his hand on it instead. Lying on his belly between Dean’s spread legs, he looks up, hair tousled, mouth curved into a grin. “It’s your birthday.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes. January 24.”

Wow. Time flies. “Guess I must’ve lost track of time.” He wants to say more on that topic, but then he realizes there are much more pressing, important matters at hand. Like Cas’s mouth on his dick. “Okay. So… go back to what you were just doing?”

“You mean this?” Cas bends further down and licks a long, wet stripe from Dean’s balls to the tip of his cock, then blows on the wet patch of skin, making Dean shiver.

“Yeah, Cas, I mean this.”

“Or this?” Cas sucks one of Dean’s balls into his mouth, licking and then rolling it with his tongue.

“Yeah, that too.”

“This, maybe?”Cas swallows Dean down, as deep as humanly possible and then some, then pulls back again.

This is getting frustrating. “Cas, it’s my birthday, alright? Don’t be a dick.”

The angel looks amused, but he nods and gets back to business. “As you wish.”

Dean closes his eyes and lets the sensations roll over him, lets everything fall away until the only thing that remains is the incredibly skillful, competent touch of Cas – be it his lips, his tongue or his fingers. The angel is freakishly good at this, maybe because he has no inhibitions or maybe because he has no gag reflex or need for oxygen now or maybe, and that just might be it, it’s simply because he’s _Cas_.

And fuck, it’s so good. Like riding a never-ending wave of pleasure, one that just keeps on building up, one that carries Dean far, far away until he loses all sense of time or direction, but at the same time he knows it’s alright because he’s got Cas to guide him through it all.

Cas, with his perfect mouth on Dean’s cock and perfect hands playing with his balls, and perfect tongue slipping past Dean’s open, gasping lips, kissing –

Wait, what?

It takes a while for Dean to process this, to wrap his mind around the mystery, but no matter how he looks at it, he always comes to the same conclusion: Cas is sucking his cock _and_ Cas is sticking his tongue down his throat. At the same time.

So there’s two of them?

Dean weakly pushes the Cas that’s kissing him away, creating just enough space between their lips to say, “Cas, did you know that there’s two of you?”

A soft chuckle. “At the moment, yes.”

Dean takes some more time to think before venturing: “I'm not really awake, then. This is a dream. You’re in my dream, Cas.”

“Yes.”

“Why are you in my dream, Cas?”

“So I can do this exactly,” the angel replies and silences any further questions by sealing their lips in a deep, wild kiss again, and while Dean might be able to resist that, he’s definitely not strong or determined or stupid enough to resist the hot, wet suction of other Cas’s mouth on his dick.

Fuck, he’s gonna come, and they haven’t even really gotten to any real fun with the dream world yet. He tries to tell Cas by putting up a weak, feeble struggle and moaning loudly into his mouth in warning, but Cas pays no attention to Dean’s attempts at putting the inevitable off, only kisses and sucks harder, and soon Dean’s spurting into Cas #1’s mouth and screaming into Cas #2’s mouth and both versions of Cas are running their hands across his body in slow, soothing circles until Dean comes down enough to be able to take notice of what’s happening around him again.

Cas #1 and Cas #2 are kneeling on the bed – and has it just gotten bigger than it used to be? – on either side of Dean’s legs and they’re both watching him with downright predatory looks on their faces.

Dean gulps loudly and feels his cock starting to fill again – and this is a dream, so shut up.

Two pairs of crystal blue eyes land on the proof of his new arousal, two pairs of lips curl into sly, impish grins.

“Roll over,” Cas #2 growls, and Cas #1 adds, “on all fours.”

Fighting the mellowness that’s starting to settle in his bones, Dean hurries to obey, body tingling with strange excitement and the tiniest bit of insecurity. He fixes his eyes on a spot of lint on the pillow before him to calm himself down. Cas #1 lies down on his back and slides under Dean the same way Dean uses a creeper to slide under Baby when he's fixing her, his head close to where Dean’s cock hangs full and heavy between his legs. Cas #2 gets behind Dean, nudging his legs further apart with his knees and then spreading his cheeks with strong palms.

A tongue laps at Dean’s cockhead.

A tongue tip circles Dean’s hole.

That’s all the warning Dean gets before Cas #1 takes him in his mouth again and Cas #2 pushes his tongue right inside him.

“Fuck!” Dean’s arms buckle but before he can crumple into the pillow under him, Cas #3 suddenly appears in front of him and supports him with strong yet surprisingly gentle hands, holding him up as he leans down to kiss and then nibble at Dean’s throat.

After that, things become too hazy and blurry for Dean’s spaced-out mind to comprehend, and the one thing he’s pretty sure of is that this is all to blame on Cas (Cases?) bending and tweaking the time-space continuum beyond its normal limits. Because this, what’s happening now? Is definitely not normal.

It feels like Cas is everywhere – there’s so many of them that Dean’s definitively given up on trying to count or keep track of them. All he knows is that there is a tongue in his ass, one set of lips is wrapped around his cock while another one is sucking at his balls, there are teeth lightly biting and scraping at both his nipples at once, a tongue is licking its way into his mouth and another one is tracing wet patterns up and down his spine.

It shouldn’t be physically possible, their bodies can’t fit like this, there should be too many limbs and stuff, right, but somehow it works and Dean’s literally drowning in Cas.

It's almost too much to take in, too much sensation and pleasure to handle, it’s frying his circuits, his head is swimming, his heart is hammering in his chest and he’s shaking so hard he’d be sprawled on the bed were it not for the countless hands holding him upright. And still there’s more and more. And more.

Unexpectedly, without warning, he comes again, white lights flashing behind his closed eyelids, before everything starts slowing down around him and suddenly it feels like he’s swimming in thick honey of touches and scents and moans and gasps.

And still, there’s more.

One of the Cases that is under Dean moves to lie on his back parallel to him and the other Cases tug and pull at Dean’s pliant, nearly boneless body, arranging and rearranging him until he’s positioned right to their liking and then they begin lowering him onto lying Cas’s cock.

Impossibly, as he’s slowly being filled until Cas is all the way in, Dean grows hard again. Wanting more, he tries to rise up but his quivering legs don’t give a damn about what he wants. Luckily the Cases around him do, and once again he’s dependent on the help of their strong hands. They lift him up, then slam him down, working up a mercilessly fast rhythm, all the while touching and kissing every part of him that’s accessible. Which, in this case, means _everywhere_.

The mattress behind him dips and he’s vaguely aware of another Cas settling behind him and then he feels fingers touching him where he’s stretched around Cas’s cock, circling his rim, fingertips slipping inside, opening him ever further, wider.

Even through the ever-growing haze of ecstasy that engulfs him, Dean understands very clearly where this is going. “Hey, that’s…”

“That’s what, Dean?” The Cas behind him whispers hotly against the shell of Dean’s ear, causing him to shiver uncontrollably.

“Too much,” he manages to get past his swollen, bitten lips.

“Of course it isn’t,” the Cas under him croons and snaps his hips up and into Dean, eliciting a ragged, broken moan from him.

“This is _your_ dream,” another Cas says and leans in to kiss Dean on the mouth, hands gripping Dean’s head firmly. “You’re directing this, you’re writing the script; I’m just making it happen.”

“You’ve fantasized about this for quite a long time now,” the Cas behind him speaks as he works even more fingers inside Dean. “You’ve always wanted more of me, didn’t you? You’ve always wanted to _give_ me more.”

And fuck it, Dean feels too good, too high, and surprisingly too free, to even try to deny it, so he just nods and moans his encouragement when those fingers are replaced by a second cock pushing its way inside him beside the first.

Even though this is just a dream, it still hurts some, probably because even in a dream Dean couldn’t imagine something like this going perfectly smoothly. He’s got two dicks in his ass, for fuck’s sake.

But God – the stretch of it, the impossible fullness, the way all those Cases move inside him and around him, leaving Dean with no choice but to let them do whatever they want, touch whatever they want, take whatever they want… Yeah, he had no idea how much he wanted this, but now that he has it, he never wants to let it go.

Dean lets his body go completely slack, trusting the angels around him to give him what he needs. And damn, they give it to him. Fucking him hard and fast and rough, hands and mouths caressing and kissing every inch of his body, plunging into his mouth, tweaking and licking his nipples, jacking his cock, whispering dirty yet affectionate words into his ears.

The experience is totally mind-blowing.

So Dean blows.

And then blacks out.

“Dean, wake up.”

Reluctantly and with great difficulty, Dean opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is Cas’s smiling face leaning above him, watching him with a warm, fond expression. But there’s mischief in those blue eyes, too, telling Dean that his unbelievably hot, kinky dream wasn’t exactly just a dream. “Happy birthday, Dean.”

Dean snorts. “Dude. You have no idea.” His voice is ridiculously weak and he feels like he doesn’t have enough strength to lift a finger. “But hey, Cas? How’d you know this is what I wanted? It’s not like I ever said ‘Hey Cas, how about you clone yourself until there’s too many of you to count and have your way with me.’”

“Actually, you did, in a way.”

“What?”

“Not in words, admittedly, but with your actions.” Cas wriggles around a bit under the covers as he speaks. “Your reactions whenever I take control during sex told me all I needed to know.

“So you’re saying I’m walking around with _I’m a needy, subby bottom_ written on my forehead?” And right now Dean feels too fuzzy and mellow to really care, but if anyone ever asks him how he even knows what _subby_ or _bottom_ means, he’s gonna shoot all the possible witnesses and then deny everything.

Cas remains calm and slightly amused by Dean’s flustered state. “Maybe, if you know what to look for. And I do know that. Very well, I believe.” He smirks, obviously satisfied with himself. “Now, it’s still early, so get some more sleep.”

The suggestion seems perfectly sound and Dean’s eyelids are already drooping when he feels the need to point out, “No dirty dreams this time, alright?”

“No dreams. Just rest.” Cas’s palm covers Dean’s brow and Dean lets sleep take him.

*

The rest of the day isn’t spent any way special, simply because they can’t afford that, not now (and possibly not ever). There’s translating the tablet, the planning and strategizing, the research and training and everything else that’s always been a part of Dean’s life and always will be.

But when the day is done, Dean tries his luck and explains to everybody that it’s a Winchester tradition to watch a movie of the birthday person’s choice on that person’s birthday. Sammy’s a good boy for once and doesn’t disprove the claim, so they have a _Die Hard_ marathon - all five of them squashed on the couch in front of the TV, eating popcorn and drinking beer, cheering John McClane on as he offs the bad guys one by one.

It’s by far the best birthday Dean’s ever had.

***

“Dammit!” Dean curses under his breath when the vengeful spirit’s blow throws him across the dorm room, his head hitting the wall hard before he crumples to the floor. Cas is definitely not gonna be happy about those bruises.

The spirit of the coed sends him an eerie smile and then turns her attention on Sam who’s desperately looking through the drawers and shelves in what used to be her room, looking for something that must’ve belonged to the girl when she was still alive, something that is now keeping her here even though they’d already burned her remains.

“Sammy, behind you!” Dean hollers as he pushes himself to his feet, leaning on the wall to do so because he’s still kinda shaken by the blow.

Sam turns around just in time to fire a dose of salt rock into the spirit’s chest and then he goes back to rummaging through the stuff, trusting Dean to cover his six.

And Dean does just that. He picks up his shotgun from where it landed a few feet from him and crosses the room, moving so he’s standing right next to Sam, back to back, eyes scanning the room, waiting for the spirit to reappear, finger ready at the trigger. “C’mon, Sammy. Don’t have all day.”

“Shut up,” mutters Sam and keeps looking. “You’re distracting me.”

“Oh, flattery. Guess I just am that pretty.”

Behind him, Sam just sighs heavily.

Before Dean can come up with any more annoying, smart-ass remarks to freak his little brother out, the spirit shows up again, heading right towards them from the far corner of the room, screeching, claw-like hands outstretched.

“Not scary.” Rock salt from Dean’s shotgun makes a hole in the spirit’s chest and it vanishes into smoke, reappearing almost immediately, looking seriously pissed off, face twisted and contorted in anger. Dean fires another round. “Still not scary.”

“Here, got it!” Sam shouts victoriously. Dean’s too occupied with the spirit to turn his head around and look what exactly Sam found, but that’s okay because Sam’s already torching whatever the thing is and with one last angry scream that turns into a scared wail towards the end, the spirit of the murdered coed catches fire and dissolves into thin air.

“Woo hoo!” Dean gives Sam a pat on the back and grins as his breathing gradually starts to slow down back to normal. “Finally something better than research or fucking meditation. That’s what I call fun.”

Sam looks vaguely disgusted. “You’re so screwed in the head I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Very likely true,” Dean agrees.

“And hey, why do you always insist on being bait?”

“’Cause when it comes to drawing somebody’s attention by pissing them off, I’m the world’s best expert.”

“Very likely true,” Sam parrots.

*

They stop by the janitor’s office on their way out after they clean up the mess they made in the dead girl’s room when fighting her angry spirit. The guy, Walt, one of Dad’s old contacts, was actually the one who called them about the case, asked them to deal with the hauntings at the WIU campus in Illinois.

“So the spirit’s been put to rest?” Walt asks, arms folded over his chest, intelligent eyes watching them curiously.

“Yeah, she’s gone for good. Nothing keeping her here anymore,” Sam nods. “So you can open the residence hall again, now that the ‘gas leak’ is fixed. Get the students back where they belong.”

Walt laughs as he shakes Sam’s hand. “Back to school. You just can’t stop education, right?”

Dean notices Sam’s smile falter at that, so he steps in, offering his own handshake. “Guess not. But if any other supernatural nasty shows up here and tries, you sure give us a call.”

“I will. Thanks, boys.”

Walt sees them to the door of his office and then they’re walking through long, tall corridors full of students rushing around them, hurrying from classes to classes, stopping at corners and chatting with friends, discussing their subjects, clutching textbooks and notebooks in their hands, excitement and hunger for knowledge shining in their eyes like a bright light.

The same light that shines in Sam’s eyes when he’s immersed in research, going through old tomes and scrolls, when he finds new books in libraries or secondhand bookshops, when he talks about something he learned in one of his courses at Stanford that’s come in handy now.

“Missing the college life?” Dean decides to breach the subject even though he’s not really expecting an honest answer just yet.

And sure, Sam just averts his eyes quickly, ducking his head, shrugs and makes a noncommittal sound, as if he’s hoping this will throw Dean off the scent.

But Dean’s known his brother, watched him, read him his whole life. He knows what to look for, and when, and he sees the nostalgia in Sam’s eyes every time their investigation takes them somewhere education-related. He knows Sam misses school, misses collecting knowledge just for knowledge’s sake. Sam’s a very good hunter, one of the best, but it’s never been in his blood, he’s never considered it his calling like Dean does.

Sam is a scholar, a Man of Letters in the best sense of the word, without the pompousness and secret signs and the superiority complex. He’s great at everything he does (hell, he could be the world champion at knitting or baking cupcakes if he wanted), but this is what he excels at, this is where he flourishes, this is what he chose to leave the hunters’ life for all those long years ago. And yes, he was dragged back into this life against his will, but all through the years he kept talking and dreaming about the day when he’d find his way out again.

And there was a time when Dean feared that day, but that time is gone now. Maybe it’s because Dean’s grown over the years, and somehow he’s found himself with more friends than he’d ever had before so the abandonment issues he keeps denying ever having have lessened considerably. And he’s got Cas. But most importantly, Dean realizes now that if Sam ever chooses to leave the life of a hunter again, it won’t mean he’s leaving Dean, too.

It will only mean that he’s pursuing his dreams again, that he’s gone from just going through life back to actively enjoying it and making it his own. It will mean that Sam is happy once more. And Sam deserves to be happy more than anyone.

That’s a whole lot of stimulating thoughts, and they keep Dean occupied for most of the ride back to Kansas.

***

Before they get back to the bunker they stop by the angels’ meeting point – just in time to catch the beginning of one of Zeke’s speeches. The number of the angels listening has grown since the first time they gathered here; according to Cas, who’s standing slightly off the stage platform, there is close to seven hundreds of them here now.  And they’re all listening to Zeke’s message of peace.

Zeke’s speeches are actually really cool, and the guy gives off this good, trustworthy vibe, the one that made Dean trust him back when Sam was dying and Zeke offered his help.

Dean can’t quite put his finger on it, but Zeke somehow feels different than most of the other angels he’s met before. He’s mostly seen warriors like Cas or Uriel, politicians and bureaucrats like Zachariah, Raphael or Naomi, or shifty tricksters like Gabriel or Balthazar.

But Ezekiel seems more like those noble, honorable old-school heroes. Level-headed and emanating calm, firmly holding by his principles, sensible and practical without being ruthless like Dean or even Cas could be sometimes.

It also helps that he hasn’t really screwed up anything major in the past so he doesn’t have any hang-ups about taking the lead. Sure, he wasn’t born into leadership, in fact, just like all the angels, he was born to follow, but Zeke is a fast learner, and willing to seek advice when he needs it, so he's doing pretty good so far. And the best thing is that he’s a really fine example for the other angels, taking them one small step at a time closer towards free will, which he calls “God’s ultimate gift to all His creation”.

Dean really can’t disagree with him on that.

“He’s like the angelic Cleisthenes, isn’t he?” Sam says, undertone, from where he’s standing next to Dean.

“The angelic who?”

“Cleisthenes, the father of democracy in ancient Athens.”

“You’re such a nerd.” But Dean’s fighting a smile – he just loves how Sam’s passion for knowledge always swims to the surface in the end.

“I’m not a nerd, Dean. This is elementary history.”

“Yeah, elementary if you’re a nerd.” Because Dean is totally supportive of Sam’s geekiness, but refraining from making fun of it? No way.

“You’re a jerk.”

“Shh!” Muriel silences them both, pouting in that cute girly way she usually does when she dislikes or misunderstands something the humans do. “If you don’t stop disturbing, I’ll take your voices away.”

Dean grins and winks at her. “Darling, you wouldn’t do that.”

Muriel stares at him, pout still firmly in place, eyes narrowed.

Dean’s grin falters. “She wouldn’t do that, right, Cas?”

Cas gives Dean one of his deceptively sweet, innocent smiles. “If you don’t shut up, I might just do it myself.”

Wise enough not to be willing to test that threat, Dean and Sam both keep their mouths shut for the rest of Ezekiel’s speech.

*

When they’re getting ready to leave, Dean waiting for Cas and Zeke to finish talking to the angels so he can take them back to the bunker, Sam’s phone rings. “Kevin? Hey. Okay, let me put you on speaker.”

“Sam, Dean?” Kevin’s voice sounds shaky, nervous. “I think I translated the first Trial.”

“Okay, what is it?” Dean asks quickly.

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Can’t trust the lines, you never know who’s listening.”

That doesn’t actually sound like a bad idea. Slightly paranoid, yes, but better safe than sorry. “We’ll be there in forty minutes.”

“Fine. Good.”

Dean leaves Sam to finish the call and goes to get Zeke and Cas. It’s not easy, forcing his way through the crowd of angels that surround them, but when he gets there and tells them what’s going on, they don’t raise any objections to getting to the bunker ASAP.

“I’m coming with you,” Muriel informs them, scuttling after them with such a determined expression that nobody dares to say no. Besides, she’s kind of become Zeke’s right hand, so her tagging along was pretty much a given anyway.

Dean sighs. “Alright, everybody, get in the car.”

The three angels end up in the backseat, Muriel squeezed between Cas and Zeke, and Dean has a lewd joke about an angel sandwich on the tip of his tongue but refrains from saying it out loud in case their threat of taking his voice still stands. Just to be sure.

*

Gathered around the library table, they all stare at Kevin expectantly, waiting for him to start talking.

The kid is apparently enjoying the suspension he’s creating because he makes a show of slowly rearranging his notes at least a dozen times before he finally speaks: “So, I translated the rest of the foreword and the part about the first Trial.”

“Yeah, we already know that.” Because despite the meditation sessions with Cas, Dean still isn’t particularly good at the whole patience thing. “So?”

“So like we hoped, once you finish the Trials, Heaven’s gates will be open again and all the angels will be taken back home.”

Sam sits up straighter at that, muscles tensing, clearly in distress. “Wait, what? _All_ the angels? Like Lucifer and Michael, too?”

“No, I checked,” Kevin says quickly. “It says specifically that all the angels who are _walking the Earth_ will be returned home, and since the Cage is in Hell, I’d say these two dicks will stay nicely locked up in there.”

“Good. That’s good.” When Dean sees Sam gradually relax at Kevin’s words, he relaxes too. “And the Trials?”

“Well, as you’d probably expect, there’s three of them.”

Groaning, Dean can’t help asking, “Why does it always have to be three? Isn’t one enough?”

“Three’s a powerful magical number,” Sam takes it upon himself to answer. “Just be thankful it’s not seven or twelve, or, I don’t know, sixty-six.”

“Okay. Thankful, and shutting up. Kevin, please continue.”

“Thank you,” Kevin says sweetly with a perfectly executed sarcastic smile. “So, as I was saying, there’s gonna be three Trials, and they have to be undertaken by an angel.”

“As expected,” Zeke nods. “I am prepared to begin.”

Kevin shifts uncomfortably, eyes glued to the floor for long moments before looking up again. “Um… you know you might die, right? After all, closing Hell’s gates would’ve killed Sam, too.”

Sam tenses again. Dean knows his brother still feels bad to some extent about not going through with the Trials and boarding up Hell, and that’s a damn shame, because Sam’s life was totally worth it, and one day Dean’s going to make Sam see that.

But this isn’t about Sam now, this is about Zeke.

And Zeke still looks all calm and ready, and it isn’t really a surprise to anyone when he says, “I am willing to lay down my life for my brethren.”

“You can’t do it, though,” Muriel interjects and all heads turn to her.

“Why not?” Zeke asks finally.

“Because you’re too important for the angels now,” Cas explains after sharing a look with Muriel. “They’ve accepted you as their leader and they are willing to follow you. You’re actually making progress with them, taking them in the right direction. You can’t leave them now.”

Zeke hangs his head in thought, then nods. “I see your point, brother. But how can I ask anyone else to do it in my place?”

And Dean’s heart stops beating, time freezing, as he stares at Cas, willing, pleading, begging him not to offer to do the Trials himself.

“You don’t have to ask anyone. I’ll do it of my free will.”

“Muriel, you can’t–“

The angel raises her eyebrows, waiting for Zeke to finish the sentence. When he doesn’t, she says, “Castiel is right. You’re too important now. As is Castiel.”

“As are you,” Cas says, a strange kindness in his voice. He looks almost proud of her, in an awfully sad way.

“Everyone is important,” Muriel smiles a smile so warm and sincere it almost hurts. “That’s what I learned from you. From all of you,” she looks around the table, smile still in place. “Not so long ago, I would have given my own life without question if I my superiors gave me the order. But it’s different now. I finally truly understand what a gift from our Father this is, the life of each and every one of us, with all the choices we can make. I’ve made my choice, and that choice is to protect this gift.”

Silence falls on the room because really, what can you say to something like that?

“Your sacrifice will not be forgotten, sister,” Zeke reaches out, placing his larger hand over Muriel’s small, almost girlish one.

Muriel just nods and turns her attention Kevin. “So, what do I have to do?”

Kevin looks distracted for a moment, but he comes around quickly. “Well, as far as I can tell, it doesn’t seem as action-packed as the Hell Trials were, what with the killing and saving and curing. From what I’ve translated, I can tell that to complete the three Trials, you have to get three blessings from three different people.”

“Just that? Three blessings?” Sam sounds almost offended, and Dean totally gets that, because, what the fuck? Sam had to go through Hell, literally, to do his Trials, and now this?

“Not just three blessings from three random people, Sam,” Kevin explains, hunched up in his chair as if trying to hide from Sam’s justified disgruntlement. “This isn’t gonna be easy. The tablet says keeping Heaven open isn’t just for the angel’s sake, it’s for the humans’ sake too, and so there has to be proof that the humans still even deserve Heaven. So the first blessing has to come from a man who holds no grudges despite being wronged.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not really specific.” The kid shrugs. “I take it as you need someone who has a reason to be pissed at the world but isn’t.”

“So we can’t just find a happy, carefree toddler,” Dean frowns.

“No.”

“Do people like that even _exist_?” Sam asks after a while of heavy, oppressive silence. “I mean, really?”

An idea comes to Dean’s mind. “Actually, I think they do. And if I’m right, we even know one.”

“Who? The Dalai Lama?”

“You know the Dalai Lama?” Cas seems genuinely impressed.

“No, come on. Garth.”

Zeke, Cas and Muriel ask at the same time, “Who’s Garth?”

“He’s a hunter,” Sam takes to explaining, because he likes to do that. “A good guy, kinda funny, but good once you get used to him.”

“A hunter with no grudges? With no hate in his heart?” Cas shakes his head. “I don’t believe that’s possible.”

“Yeah, it sounds impossible, man, but I’m telling you, it’s true.” Dean interjects. “Look, last year, we were investigating this case with a cursed coin that took your anger and used it against you if you touched it. Well, I touched it and I almost killed Sammy.”

Sam snorts. “You didn’t. I would’ve taken you.”

Dean snorts right back at his brother. “Please, you totally wouldn’t have.”

“Yeah I would.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Sam! Dean!” Kevin – Kevin, of all people – yells at them. “Mind getting back to the important stuff?”

Throwing one last offended glance at Sam, Dean reluctantly obliges. “So anyway, Garth touched the coin too. And you know what happened? Nada. He said he’s made peace with himself and his life. He's got his yoga or whatever and he's all cool. So if this isn’t our guy, I don’t know who is.”

Muriel stands up. “So let’s go find this Garth.”

***

“You want my blessing?” Garth repeats, looking very confused, questioning eyes fixed on Muriel. “An _angel_ wants _my_ blessing?”

“Come on, just give it to me,” Muriel pleads.

“Yeah, just give it to her, Garth,” Dean chuckles and gets a smack on the head from Sam and a whack on the arm from Cas at the same time for it.

“I swear, Dean, sometimes you act like you just hit puberty,” Sam complains with that teenager-embarrassed-of-his-parents expression that Dean loves so much.

“Yeah, still young at heart. You jealous?”

“Guys, you’re spoiling the moment,” Garth interrupts them before they can start bickering. “This is serious stuff. I’m helping save the world, here. I know that’s not exactly a big deal for you anymore, but it is for me, so please, don’t be idjits.”

“Sorry.”

Garth waits a couple of moments, probably to be sure that Dean’s not messing with him, before he asks Muriel, “So what exactly am I supposed to do?”

Muriel sinks to her knees in front of the young hunter, right there in the parking lot by the Impala. “Just put your hand on my head and say ‘I give you my blessing, Muriel.’”

Garth clears his throat nervously, straightens his collar, combs his fingers through his hair like he’s getting ready for his first date. After taking a deep breath, he follows the angel’s instructions and says solemnly, “I give you my blessing, Muriel.” He waits, keeps his hand on her head for a little while longer before pulling back. “So… did it work?”

Muriel gets back to her feet. “We’ll see.” Closing her eyes, she utters the required incantation: “Kam-nah, varah-maan-dah, lam-poon.”  As she says the last words, she gasps, doubling over in what Dean recognizes as the Trials side-effects.

Cas is immediately there to support her, steadying her until she’s ready to stand on her own. “Are you alright, Muriel?”

She nods, her smile a bit too tight. “I will be. At least we know it worked.” She pushes Cas aside and turns to Garth, offering him her hand. “Thank you, Garth Fitzgerald IV.”

Cas helps Muriel get into the Impala after that, giving Sam and Dean some privacy to say their goodbyes to Garth.

“It’s been nice, seeing you again,” Sam hugs the smaller hunter, then pats him on the back. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Yeah, give us a call sometimes,” Dean pulls Garth into a tight hug, too. “And you should definitely come check out our bunker. Seriously, dude, it’s awesome.”

“I will, amigos. Soon.”

“And hey, be careful. Keep your nose clean,” Dean warns him.

“You mean this beauty?” Garth taps the side of his sizable nose with a grin. “I always do. And I’d tell you to stay out of trouble too, but I’m not sure you even know what that means.”

“Hey, I’ve got nothing to worry about,” Dean grins back, throwing a sideways glance at Cas who’s waiting by the car, leaning against the hood. “I’ve got my guardian angel, don’t I?”

He only hopes reopening Heaven isn’t going to change that.

***

It’s been almost a year since Sam and Dean first moved into the bunker but Dean doesn’t think there’ll ever come a time for him to stop appreciating the quality of the water pressure here. Not after spending his whole life in mucky, dingy motels where you were lucky if the shower worked _at all_ and lukewarm, rusty water was a luxury.

He takes his time under the hot spray of water, washing away the long hours of their there-and-back-again trip to Garth, but unable to wash away the army of worried thoughts that’s growing inside his head.

“Dean, talk to me,” Cas says and spits toothpaste into the sink. He doesn’t have to brush his teeth anymore, being an angel and all, but to Dean’s eternal gratitude he continues to do it, claiming that doing small, human things like this helps him remember what’s important so he doesn’t get lost in the bigger picture again. “Something troubles you.”

Cursing as shampoo gets into his eyes, Dean speaks loudly over the shower, “Reading my mind again?”

Cas rinses his mouth and puts his toothbrush away. “You know I can’t do that, and even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So tell me what’s wrong.”

Dean considers trying to weasel out of having this talk, but even if he somehow succeeded now – which is very unlikely since once Cas catches the scent of a problem, he usually goes after it like a hunting dog – it would only postpone the inevitable. “I’ve been thinking about Muriel. What she’s doing now, what she’s going through and what’s gonna happen to her once the Trials are completed.”

“Her death will be a great loss for us all,” Cas nods, a shadow passing over his face. Dean can’t imagine how many brothers and sisters, how many fellow soldiers Cas must’ve lost over the long span of his life in the battle against evil. The numbers must be huge. Still, Dean knows from experience that losing those you care about is something you never get used to. It never gets easier and it never stops hurting like a bitch. Never.

“So, you know her well?”

“Actually, no, we only met a few times before the Fall. She was from a different garrison.”

“Oh.” Dean finishes showering and reaches for the towel but it’s not on the towel rail, it’s in Cas’s outstretched hand. “Thanks.”

“She’s a good angel, though, and a good friend.” Castiel gets that proud yet smile again. “She could’ve stayed away from the fighting but she decided to face her fears. Muriel was among the first ones to join Ezekiel and me, and she was the only one of the angels who showed no doubt or hesitancy when we embarked on the dangerous mission of rescuing you from Bartholomew.”

Dean winces as he dries himself off. “So not a good memory.“ Also, not the point. “But see? This is exactly what pisses me off. Muriel’s a cool chick, I really like her a lot. And now she’s gonna die because of another freaking Trial.” He throws the towel away angrily, the wet cloth slapping against tiled floor before Dean makes himself pick it up again and then steps into his pajama pants. “Why does it always have to be like this, Cas? Why does everything good always come with a price? Why is there always some stupid sacrifice that you have to make, why do we have to keep _losing_ people?”

His voice breaks on the last words and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, hands balled into fists as he takes slow, deep breaths, but he tears up anyway, completely and pathetically unable to keep his shit together. He must be going soft in his old age. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Cas walks up to him, an eternally caring and tender expression in his eyes, and pulls Dean into a hug that Dean leans into with gratitude. In a way, Cas’s hugs are very similar to Sam’s – both make Dean feel small and protected, but at the same time strengthened and encouraged. Safe.

“This isn’t just about Muriel,” Cas says once Dean pulls himself together a bit. He’s stating it as a fact, not asking a question.

“Yeah,” Dean admits, pulling back a little so he can look Cas in the face. “I just… I don’t want anything to happen to you, or Sammy.”

“And why should something happen to us?”

“Come on, Cas! Every time we try to pull off something big, one of us gets hurt. Or worse. And I used to be more okay about this in the past, I accepted it as necessary evil, but now I just can’t…” He sucks in a breath, tries again. “I can’t lose any more of my family.”

“You won’t,” Cas tells him, firm and solid, like this is a promise, but Dean knows too damn well that it’s a promise Cas can’t really keep – no one can.

All he’s left with is hope, and hope’s never gotten the Winchesters very far.

“Come to bed,” Cas mutters, tugging softly at the waistband of Dean’s pants. “A good night’s worth of sleep will make everything better.”

They quickly walk through the bunker corridors into their room, closing the door behind them.

“You gonna stay here with me?” Dean asks when they’re both settled under the covers, lying on their sides, facing each other.

“You mean here in bed or here on Earth after Heaven is open again?” Cas asks in a show of his perceptiveness.

“Both.”

“Yes, I’ll stay with you.” Cas moves closer until they’re sharing the same air, their foreheads and noses touching. “Now go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

*

When Dean wakes up the next morning, the first thing he sees is Cas lying next to him, still fast asleep, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, Cas is really going to stay for good.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time for the angels to go home is drawing near.

“This one sounds relatively easy,” Kevin says and runs a hand over his face. As usual, he looks tired and Castiel makes a mental note to take some of that exhaustion from the boy when the meeting is over. “To complete the second Trial, we have to get a blessing from a man whose faith is strong despite the hardships he’s been put through.”

“Faith in what?” Dean cuts in on the Prophet.

“Faith in God, Dean,” Sam replies in Kevin’s place, watching Dean with a _come on_ expression. “These Trials were written by God himself, I don’t think he wants faith in the United States Constitution or the reliability of the press.”

“Sam’s right,” Kevin confirms the younger Winchester’s words with a slight nod. “And we’re talking real, genuine faith here, not the lukewarm, _we go to church on Sunday because it’s what everybody does_ thing that passes for faith for most people around here.”

Dean grunts and rolls his eyes. “So, not really easy at all.”

“Why do you think so?” Muriel speaks for the first time this evening, head inclined to one side as she studies Dean with curiosity. “Not everyone is as skeptic and faithless as you hunters. Finding a true believer won’t be as difficult as you think, I am sure of that.”

“If you say so,” Dean grumbles, looking grumpy like he does every time when religion or faith is mentioned. “So how are we gonna find this true believer person? We just start going around, knocking on doors and asking folks if God is their BFF?”

“We could tune in to the prayers sent our way, try to sort out the profit-seeking ones from the unselfish, heartfelt ones,” Ezekiel offers a solution. It’s a viable one, albeit somewhat lubberly.

“I have a better idea,” Castiel says.

*

And that’s how they end up in Detroit, sitting in the Impala in front of a church and waiting for a woman whose name Castiel doesn’t know, a woman with a kind smile and strong, unshakable faith even in the face of her husband being gravely sick, even in the face of Castiel telling her that God’s not listening anymore.

 _Your lack of faith doesn’t cancel what I believe_ , she had said before she left the church, leaving the then newly human Castiel alone with his bleak thoughts. He only hopes now that her prayers for her husband’s recovery have been answered – not because he thinks she’d lose her faith otherwise, but because she seemed like a good woman who truly deserves happiness.

Dean offers Castiel a package of M&Ms, already munching on the candy. “This is gonna be so weird. What do we say to her if she comes?”

“The truth would be the best option,” Castiel replies and tries the peanut M&Ms. They’re Dean’s favorite but Castiel’s discovered he prefers the wild cherry ones, a fact that Dean finds infinitely amusing. “We’ll tell her that we need her help, that we need her faith.”

“And she’s just gonna help us out of the goodness of her heart?”

“If I’m not wrong in my assessment of her, then I believe yes, she is.”

Dean snorts and takes the M&Ms back from Castiel. “You and your trust in people, man.” He puts one piece of candy in his palm, flicks his hand up quickly, throwing the M&M in the air and catching it in his mouth easily.

“I have to have faith in something.” Castiel steals one M&M from Dean and tries to catch it in his mouth, too, but the attempt isn’t successful and the candy ends up on the car mat. This easy-looking trick apparently requires some amount of practice that Castiel clearly lacks. At Dean’s disapproving and somewhat threatening glare, he picks the M&M up quickly and doesn’t try again. “Everyone does.”

“Yeah, I’ve got faith in my Baby and in my gun.” Dean pats the Impala’s steering wheel and then the Colt lying on the seat next to his leg, partially hidden by Dean’s jacket. “I keep them clean and functional and they never let me down.”

Castiel sighs and looks away. He could try reasoning with Dean that that’s not faith, not really, but he knows from long years of experience that the elder Winchester will always remain skeptical and bitter when religion or faith of any kind is involved. From what Castiel’s gathered from their fairly rare talks on the subject, Dean seems to consider faith as a crutch, as something that people need when they’re not strong enough to stand on their own, and that’s it for him. Of course, Dean isn’t completely wrong, but he’s also completely failing to notice everything else that there is to faith.

But trying to explain that to him would be a lost battle from the very beginning.

Castiel is roused from his musings when he spots a familiar figure walking down the sidewalk towards the church’s entrance. Sitting up straighter, he quickly puts his hand on Dean’s arm to get his attention. “Dean. There she is.”

Dean immediately lets go of the M&Ms, grabs his Colt and hides it in his waistband – as far as Castiel knows, he never goes out without it – before stepping out of the car. “Showtime.”

They follow the woman into the church where Castiel found shelter once, where he tried to pray to his Father but couldn’t find the words, and where he overheard the woman’s prayer.

Just like the last time Castiel was here, the woman sits in one of the front-most pews, passing Muriel and Sam who sit in the back without sparing them a second look. She doesn’t pray out loud this time, and Castiel isn’t sure whether that’s a good sign or not.

“We should wait until she’s done praying. Let’s sit down,” he whispers to Dean who rolls his eyes but obeys, choosing a pew in the back, on the opposite side of the aisle from Sam and Muriel. Castiel sits down next to him and since he sees no reason not to, he closes his eyes and clasps his hands together, bowing his head slightly as he gives thanks for all the good that’s come his way.

The last time he was here, he was wallowing in despair and guilt, feeling lost and alone, seeing no way out of the darkness around him. But now he feels strong and even hopeful again, thanks to the support of his friends and family, both angelic and human. But most of all thanks to Dean, who – despite claiming he has no faith in anything that he can’t see with his own eyes – showed faith in Castiel when Castiel himself had none.

A soft nudge in the side from Dean tells Castiel to open his eyes then and he can see the woman walking past him through the aisle. He stands up quickly, drawing her attention and she does a double take, turning to look at him as recognition dawns her face.

“I know you,” she says, lips already curling into the same kind smile that he remembers from before. “Although I think I’ve only seen you here once, over half a year ago.”

“You have a great memory,” Castiel praises her as he returns her smile.

She shakes her head slightly, waving the compliment off. “Not really. I just remember you because we spoke about faith and about Mike, my husband, who was very sick at the time. He got better soon after that, though, thanks to our Lord.”

Castiel doesn’t really think her husband’s recovery had anything to do with God, but naturally he leaves that to himself. “I am very happy to hear that.” He offers her his hand. “My name is Cas.”

“Evelyn,” she says as she shakes his hand. Her palms are unexpectedly rough and wrinkled for someone her age. “So, have you found your faith again yet?”

Throwing a quick sideways glance at Dean who stands a few steps behind him, Castiel can give an honest answer. “Yes, I have.”

Evelyn’s face brightens up even more and then she peeks over Castiel’s shoulder at Dean curiously. “And who is your friend over there?”

“Oh, that’s my–“

“Hi, I’m Dean, and Cas here is my old buddy,” Dean interrupts Castiel and walks up to Evelyn, shaking her hand after shooting Castiel a warning glance, which reminds Castiel that yes, God’s Word has been misinterpreted in the Bible and so there is a chance that as a well-behaved Catholic, Evelyn wouldn’t be very understanding of the nature of his relationship with Dean.

Sam and Muriel also stand up and join them, Sam with his shoulders hunched up as if trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. “And I’m Sam. This is Muriel.”

Evelyn’s smile falters for a moment, confusion crossing her features. “Oh. There’s a whole bunch of you.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not here to hurt you,” Castiel hurries to assure her, well aware of what this must look like.

“In fact,” Muriel takes another step forward, “we are here to ask for your help.”

*

Once they get back into the Impala and Dean starts the car, Sam voices what everyone must be thinking: “Huh. That went pretty well.”

Castiel grins victoriously. “I told you she would help.”

“She’s a very generous, open-hearted woman,” Muriel observes, her voice a little weak and shaky as she slowly recovers from completing the second Trial. She looks disturbingly pale and tired, slumping slightly in her seat, but when Castiel gives her a worried, questioning glance, she just shakes her head and sends him another of her small, brave smiles. “I’m fine.”

In the driver’s seat, Dean snorts. “Yeah, tell that to someone who hasn’t been through the Trials crap before, right, Sammy?”

In the front passenger seat, Sam nods, turning his head awkwardly so he can meet Muriel’s eyes. “He’s right, you know. You need to rest, save your strength.”

“Yeah,” Dean speaks again, watching Muriel in the rearview mirror, “in fact, when we get back to the bunker, I’m gonna make you the famous Winchester cure-all soup.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches as if he’s trying not to laugh. “Dean, I’m not sure that’s–“

“Shut up, okay? She’s getting soup. And so are you. You should be jumping with joy, you ungrateful bastards.”

“So… I’m going back to the bunker with you?” Muriel asks, sounding confused as her gaze jumps from one Winchester to the other. “I thought I was going back to my brothers and sisters.”

“The hell you are. You’re gonna stay in the bunker until this is over.” Dean informs her firmly. “You’re important now, you gotta stay as safe as possible, and as far as we know, the bunker’s the safest place on Earth right now.”

“Dean is right,” Castiel supports his partner when Muriel doesn’t seem convinced. “We know Metatron is still looking for the tablet and for Kevin, and we have no way of knowing if he hasn’t learned about you doing the Trials already. We need to keep you safe.”

She gives a sigh but doesn’t protest anymore. Her sense of responsibility wouldn’t allow it.

***

Two days later, Castiel is in the kitchen, discussing the shopping list with Sam (the younger Winchester has very specific preferences when it comes to apples), Dean and Kevin already waiting for him outside by the Impala, when he feels a strong tug at his insides, as if some force is physically pulling him towards the bunker’s front entrance. His legs are moving before his brain even registers Dean’s voice in his head, announcing that _trouble’s here_.

When he runs through the door, he meets Kevin, wide-eyed and scared, bleeding from a shallow cut on his temple but otherwise apparently unharmed. “Get inside,” he orders and the boy obeys, passing Sam on his way in before closing the heavy door shut behind him.

Castiel assesses the situation in a heartbeat – there are two demons lying on the ground, already dead, and three more are still alive, circling around Dean who has Ruby’s knife in his hand, the blade dripping blood.

Dean doesn’t appear to be injured.

Also, he’s smiling.

It’s an ugly smile, all bared teeth and violence and the thrill of a fight that can only end one way.

The three low-grade demons are no match for a seasoned hunter like Dean Winchester. _Trouble’s here_ indeed.

Absolutely positive that Dean is going to win, Castiel stands back. Sam, standing next to him, does the same, muttering benevolently, “I guess we should let him have some fun, right?”

And Dean is having fun, there’s no doubt about that. He moves with easy, fluid grace, spinning and sidestepping, dodging and blocking their blows while handing out blows of his own, his moves efficient and economical, and through all that, the smile stays firmly on his face. He’s toying with the demons, drawing the fight out for his pleasure, and for the pleasure of his viewers.

Castiel is an angel, he should value peace and harmony above all else, and he does. But he’s also a warrior and he can certainly appreciate another warrior’s skill and grace.

With a fast jab, Dean gets past one demon’s defenses, burying the demon-killing knife into his heart, then withdraws the blade quickly and dances away from the remaining two demons’ reach. Enraged, they charge at Dean together, but they’re uncoordinated and clumsy, one of them running right into Dean’s upturned knife.

The last demon standing starts backing away nervously and Dean follows him, the promise of murder in his eyes, driving the demon towards the spot where Castiel is standing. The demon only realizes this when it’s too late and tries to smoke out of his meatsuit, but Castiel steps in before it can get out, pushing the smoke back into the host, slapping a palm over his mouth and dragging him closer to the bunker door, out of sight. Once he’s there, he burns a binding link into the demon’s forearm, effectively locking him inside the body.

Dean jogs up to them, slightly breathless. “Thanks, Cas.” He walks right into the demon’s personal space, their faces inches apart, and grins. “Hey, my name is Dean Winchester, but I guess you already know that, don’t you?”

The demon tries to struggle in Castiel’s grip but when his attempts prove to be futile, he relaxes slightly and gives a small, reluctant nod.

Dean is still grinning like a madman. “Okay, good. Now, wanna explain to me what were you and your buddies doing here?”

“Like I’m gonna tell you,” the demon growls defiantly, but there’s fear underneath that, Castiel can smell it and so can Dean.

“Oh, but you are,” the hunter whispers intimately before stepping back and raising his bloodstained knife to the demon’s eyes. “If you know who I am then you know I served time in the Pit, right? You know I spent ten long, enlightening, eventful years as Alastair’s favorite student.”

The demon shudders and gulps at the mention of the name that inspires terror even among the forces of evil.

But then, the cruel, manic glint in Dean’s eyes is quite terrifying, too. “Alastair was proud of me, you know. Real proud. He always used to praise me for the rational, detached efficiency of my work. But you know what? I’m not emotionally detached this time. In fact, since you attacked my _family_ , I’m really, really pissed. So why don’t you start talking before things get real ugly?”

“Metatron sent us,” the demon stutters out.

“Metatron? Seriously?” Dean twirls the knife in his fingers threateningly.

“I’m not lying, I swear! He hired us because he thought you’d be less careful about demon scouts now that Abaddon is dead than about angels,” the words are falling from the demon’s lips in a desperate plea for mercy, showing that he is really telling the truth. “He hired entire legions of us and he has us looking for the Prophet all over the States.”

“Okay, and now you found us,” Dean nods. “So, the important question is, does he already know we’re here?”

“We called him long before we jumped you and the boy,” the demon says gleefully. “He must already be on his way here. And he won’t be alone.”

Dean regards the demon for a few moments with a cold, hard, calculating stare. “You know, if I didn’t have more important stuff to do, I’d really love to work you over anyway.” He sighs and shrugs. “Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we? Cas, get rid of him.”

Castiel burns the demon out; the man whose body the demon was occupying is long gone. Just as he’s about to ask Dean what to do with the four corpses, he hears tires screeching on the asphalt and then there are several cars coming towards the bunker. All their passengers are angels. And most importantly, one of them is Metatron.

“Let’s go,” Castiel grabs Dean and Sam by their jackets and ushers them inside the bunker, Metatron’s power already chasing after them, hard on their heels. Castiel slams the door shut in the last moment and turns around to check that everybody’s alright. The brothers seem to be fine, Dean already checking on Kevin, and Muriel is there, too, looking worried.

“Wow, that was close,” Sam comments, his eyes wide and chest heaving. He runs his fingers through his hair in a gesture of discomposure.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, but suddenly his expression changes to utterly terrified and he moves towards the door. “Fuck! Baby’s still outside! She’s still out there! They have my Baby!”

In the end, Castiel has to physically drag him down the stairs, push him into a chair and thrust a bottle of liquor into his hand before Dean finally calms down enough to be rational about his car again. “If they leave a single scratch on her, I’ll kill them all,” he growls finally and takes a long swing of alcohol straight from the bottle before putting it away.

His cellphone rings then and Dean answers it without looking at the display, barking: “Yeah?” Murder appears on his face again when the voice at the other end of the line speaks. “Metatron,” he snarls with contempt and puts the phone on speaker, placing it on the table. “What do you want?”

“Dean, it’s good to hear you,” Metatron says in that deceptively friendly, kind tone that makes Castiel’s blood boil. “Anyway, you know what I want. Give me the Prophet and the tablet.”

Dean snorts. “Right. Not gonna happen.”

“Dean, Dean, Dean.” Metatron gives a long-suffering sigh, for some reason still playing the part of the good, understanding angel. Maybe he still believes himself to be one. “You’re afraid I might hurt Kevin, aren’t you? Well, I give you my word that I won’t harm a hair on his head.”

“Yeah, why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re the most distrustful, grumpy young old man I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, really.”

Even in the graveness of the situation, Castiel can’t suppress a small smile at the way everybody in the room looks at Dean, nodding  _yes, really_.

Shooting daggers alternately at all of them, Dean scowls and replies, “Well, maybe I am. But then you’re the most deceiving, slimy son of a bitch I’ve ever met, so…”

Metatron laughs, not sounding offended at all. “Dean, please. Can’t we put what happened behind us? I want to help, alright?”

“Like you helped Cas?” Dean asks, anger coming off him in waves. “Thanks, I think we’ll pass. So you can take your offer and your angel pals and fuck off. And don't you dare lay a finger on my car!” Without waiting for a reply, he hangs up.

“Are you sure that was wise?” Sam asks when Dean slumps in his seat, hiding his face in his hands. “I mean, it's not like I want to hand Kevin over–“

“Gee, thanks so much,” Kevin interrupts him, his sarcasm not enough to cover up the relief underneath.

Sam pats the Prophet on the shoulder and continues talking, more to Castiel and Muriel than to Dean who remains completely unresponsive. “But if Metatron really wants Kevin and the tablet so much, who knows what he’s gonna do to get it, right? He could start taking hostages or something.”

“I don’t think he will,” Castiel shakes his head and in the chair to his left, Muriel nods her agreement. “If he was ready to do that, he would’ve started already. But he can’t afford such big-scale, drastic measures, he can’t afford to draw that much attention to himself. Most of the fallen angels, whether they follow Ezekiel or not, would love to get their hands on Metatron for what he’s done to Heaven, so he’ll have to lay low.”

“Yeah,” Dean speaks, finally pulling his hands off his face. “He’s just gonna sit on his ass and wait outside the bunker until we run out of supplies and surrender.” Taking a deep breath, he stands up to face the others, his posture changing as he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin up, smoothly going from his distressed mode into leader mode. “But it won’t come to that, you hear me? We can wait him out. We’ve got enough supplies for _weeks_.”

“What?”

Dean gives a shrug. “I restocked the bunker for a siege right after the angels fell. Just in case. So we just wait. Kevin, you’ll work on translating the last Trial. Who knows, maybe we’ll even be able to do it right here, in the bunker, and Metatron’s gonna be truly fucked then. Right?”

“And if we can’t finish the Trials here?” Muriel asks.

Grimacing, Dean replies reluctantly, “Then we’ll have to make a break for it. Call Zeke and his troops for help.”

“We could do that right now,” Kevin interposes. He’s scared and doing his best not to show it, but he’s nowhere near panicking, so Castiel isn’t really worried.

“No. I don’t want any bloodshed until we have no other choice,” Dean says firmly in a tone that indicates this is not up for discussion. “This is exactly what we’re trying to stop from happening, two angel armies fighting it out here on Earth and innocent human vessels suffering for it. No way I’m gonna let that happen. We clear on that?”

One after one, they voice their consent.

Looking satisfied, Dean nods. “Great. Now let’s go to work.”

***

Days pass one after one in a firmly set routine that Dean imposed on them.

They sleep in shifts, someone always on guard in case Metatron started doing anything else than just camping outside the bunker door.

They stay in contact with Ezekiel, calling regularly to report their status and ask about his.

What’s surprising is how easy the mood in the bunker is – nobody’s despairing, nobody’s losing hope, nobody’s complaining. Dean doesn’t let them.

He assumes leadership, to which nobody objects, and he uses that commanding, confident voice that just won’t take no for answer to keep everybody in the bunker occupied so there’s no time left for worries or doubts at all.

While Kevin works on translating the last Trial, Dean makes the others work through the bunker’s archives and depositories in case they find something useful in there, which is undoubtedly possible, but Castiel also knows that it’s a way of giving them something, _anything_ to do.

It’s not just work, though. Like the mother hen Dean constantly – and uselessly – denies being, Dean conscientiously makes sure that everybody’s well-fed and hydrated and gets enough sleep, and he asks Cas to lead a meditation class that everyone has to attend.

He also establishes movie nights, claiming that Muriel has to see as many of the classics as she can. So each night, one of them picks a movie and they settle in the library, camping on the large couch. When everybody’s attention is focused on the TV screen, Castiel sneaks surreptitious glances at Dean and more often than not finds him not watching the movie but the people around him, a soft, satisfied, fond smile playing on his lips.

Because Dean is constantly watching them, constantly looking for the smallest, tiniest signs of trouble, for signs of their enforced isolation taking its toll on them. And if he finds any, he acts fast, nips it in the bud with words or gestures of encouragement, with a joke, a bowl of hot soup or a calming, comforting touch.

That’s another thing about Dean that Castiel hadn’t noticed before but retrospectively he knows it’s always been there: in times of crisis, Dean often becomes very tactile. He’s almost constantly touching those around him, usually just a brush of shoulder against shoulder, a knee bumping into a knee under the table, a pat on the back, a ruffle on the hair. It’s subtle, but it works, distributing just the right amount of support and comfort whenever and wherever it’s needed.

In return, Castiel, Sam and even Kevin with Muriel keep watching over Dean, waiting for him to show signs of fatigue and weariness of his position as the universal shoulder to lean on. Or for the signs of Dean getting claustrophobic again like he did before. But the signs never come – Dean seems to be fine, content, and even happy. It’s like nothing comforts Dean more than offering comfort to others, nothing gives him more strength than seeing those he loves strengthened by his actions or words.

And that’s how they keep each other’s spirits up as days slowly become weeks, with Metatron and his small army still camped before their gates.

***

“That’s it,” Kevin whispers, staring at the tablet and his notes that are scattered all across the table. “I’ve got it.” Standing up, he whoops and throws himself around Castiel’s neck. “Cas, I’ve got it!”

“What, the last Trial?” Sam rushes into the library, closely followed by Dean and Muriel.

Kevin nods, his eyes wide in excitement, and for once, he doesn’t make them wait any longer. “We have to get a blessing from a penitent sinner.”

“Seriously? That’s it?” Dean looks at the Prophet incredulously before exchanging surprised, disbelieving glances with first Sam, then Castiel. “That could be any of us, right? We all fucked up big time and we all feel sorry for it.”

“Actually, no,” Kevin clears his throat. “First of all, don’t forget that it has to be a human.”

“Okay, then me or Dean,” Sam says.

Kevin just shakes his head again. “Sorry, I don’t think either of you really qualifies. The Trial requires something strong, something huge, like, I don’t know, a repentant Hitler regretting all the evil he’s caused.”

Dean raises his hand. “Hey, I tortured souls in Hell for years. And I started the Apocalypse.”

Sam smacks his brother on the head. “I did that. I broke the last seal and freed the Devil, so I’d say I win.”

Again, Kevin shakes his head. “Sorry, no, not good enough.”

“Why the hell not?”

Castiel steps in, saving the young Prophet from the two angry Winchesters hovering over him. They can both be very imposing when they want to, and sometimes even when they don’t. Especially when they talk at the same time, their postures perfect mirrors. “I think what Kevin’s trying to say is that even though you both caused much evil and suffering, it was always unintentional, and not really something you could’ve prevented. You were both forced to play your roles in the Apocalypse, you didn’t actively choose to hurt anybody, to spread pain around you.”

“Yeah, actually I did,” Dean grumbles, looking uncomfortable, head down. “I chose to accept Alastair’s offer, nobody forced me to do it.”

“You know how ridiculous that sounds, don’t you?” Sam admonishes his brother. “Don’t even try. If anyone should win this _who fucked up more_ pissing contest, it’s definitely me.”

Kevin sighs and pushes Castiel aside, entering the conversation again. “Guys, and I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter. It can’t be either of you, okay? Because you, you’re good. Your intentions were always good, you never woke up in the morning thinking _Oh, why don’t I take over the world today, no matter how many people I hurt in the process_.”

“You wanna bet on that?” Dean quips.

“Shut up,” comes from Kevin, Castiel, Sam and even Muriel at once.

Dean frowns, pouting as he sulks. “Okay, so if it can’t be us, then who? Some mass murderer who feels sorry about what he’s done? You don’t exactly see a lot of those.”

Sam lets out a huff of breath and smiles slowly. “Hey, what about Crowley?”

Dean stares at his brother as if he just sprouted a second head. “Did you forget about the part where the person has to be a) human, and b) penitent? ‘Cause as far as I know, Crowley ain’t either.”

Sam grins. “Well, not yet. But we could make him.” At their blank stares, he continues: “Curing a demon, don’t you remember? The last time I tried, he was already almost there! So all we have to do is finish it.”

“Hold on,” Muriel interrupts him, creases forming on her brow as she thinks about it. “You said Dean doesn’t qualify even after what he did in Hell. And I agree with that, nobody can be held responsible for breaking under that kind of strain. But wouldn’t then the same excuse apply to Crowley as well? Because all the horrible things he’s done… that was _after_ he became a demon, wasn’t it?”

“No. There’s a difference.” Castiel says, remembering all that he knows about the King of Hell from the time when they were working together. “Dean sold his soul in a selfless act of saving his brother. Crowley, on the other hand, did it for power; power that he was misusing for dark, evil purposes long before he became a demon. No good intentions there.”

“And who says he’s gonna feel sorry about what he did before Hell, huh?” Dean brings up a question that Castiel can’t honestly answer.

But Sam can, and his answer is simple: “It’s at least worth a shot.”

*

In the dark of their room, Dean tosses and turns on the bed before he finally gives up trying to sleep, groans and sits up, turning the bedside lamp on. “I hate waiting.”

Castiel sits up too, leaning against the headboard. “You should be sleeping, you know.”

“Like I could.” Dean scrabbles around the bedside table until he finds his wristwatch – it’s only a recent success that he’s stopped wearing it to bed, one more step towards letting go of the old habits from years of sleeping in motel rooms where nothing was really safe  – and squints at the display. “Huh. Two in the morning.”

Which means five more hours until Sam is done with the cleansing ritual he’s performing on Crowley. “You brother’s going to be fine, Dean.  He’s already done it before.”

Dean makes a waving motion with his hand at that. “I’m not worried about Sam. I know he can do it, and he’s got Muriel watching over him.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

Turning his head towards Castiel, Dean gives him an incredulous look. “I’m worried about you, you stupid son of a bitch!”

“But… Why?”

For a moment, Dean looks like he might actually throttle Castiel. “As far as we know, this spell is gonna zap all the angels back to Heaven, right? And that means you, too.”

“I’ll come back.”

Dean grimaces and shakes his head. “Yeah, if they don’t kill you first.”

Oh, that. Castiel kind of hoped Dean would forget about that possibility. “I’m sure the angels are over that.”

“The ones that follow Zeke, sure. And others who heard it actually was Metatron who did the spell, maybe. But come on, Cas! We only know about the angels in America, and they might be generally inclined in your favor, but what if there’s some faction of evil KGB angels in Russia, or, I don’t know, Malaysia, whatever! They’re all gonna come home and you can’t honestly look me in the eye and tell me not a single one of them won’t ask for your head on a silver platter!”

“No, I can’t.”

Dean’s face falls at that, as if some small part of him was secretly, despite everything, hoping Castiel wouldn’t say that.

“But I won’t let them take me,” Castiel speaks again, quickly trying to make things better again. “Ezekiel won’t let them. I’ll come back to you, you’ll see.”

Dean draws in a shaky breath, obviously battling to keep his emotions in check. “Yeah, I hope so. But we can’t know for sure, not really. Let’s face it, Cas, there’s a fair chance I won’t see you again once the last Trial is done. Maybe these five hours is all the time together we have left. And it’s just…” He trails off, looking away, hiding his face in the shadows. “And it’s like I can hear the seconds ticking away, laughing at me. It’s like you’re already fading away, slipping through my fingers.”

“Well, I’m not.” Castiel moves over and sits on Dean’s lap. Taking both Dean’s hands in his and lacing their fingers together, he squeezes and feels Dean squeeze back. “I’m here.”

“Yeah, I guess you are,” Dean’s warm breath gusts over Castiel’s face. Their lips meet in something that’s not a kiss, not yet, just a confirmation of closeness, a promise of always and forever. They stay like that for minutes, holding hands and lips resting on lips, before Castiel feels the tip of Dean’s tongue licking at his mouth, coaxing its way inside, and Castiel opens up, lets Dean in, moans at the sudden surge of heat that the kiss awakens in him.

Dean lets go of Castiel’s hands, pushing at his shoulders. “Let’s get these clothes off,” he rasps, already clawing and tugging at Castiel’s thin t-shirt. They work quickly to get out of their clothes and once they’re naked, Dean lays Castiel down on the bed and kneels next to him, just looking, his eyes travelling up and down his body as if he’s trying to create a mental map to save in his head for later in case memories will be all that’s left for him.

Castiel instantly grows hard under the heated, worshipful look in Dean’s eyes, and a quick glance between Dean’s legs tells him his lover isn’t faring any better, but neither of them moves to touch the other yet.

“Stupid angel. You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Dean says when he finally moves to kneel between Castiel’s legs, leaning over him so they can kiss again, their bodies grinding together in a slow, sensual dance of sweat-slick skin.

“I need you inside me,” Castiel begs as soon as Dean frees his mouth and starts laying wet kisses down the length of his throat. “Please.”

“Yeah,” Dean lifts to his elbows, hand reaching towards the nightstand drawer, but Castiel is way ahead of him, already slapping the uncapped bottle of lubricant into his palm. He doesn’t need it, not really, he can control his body now in ways that he couldn’t as a human, but Dean enjoys it, likes to take his time opening Castiel up, likes to build up the tension and want until they both can’t wait any longer, until they’re both shaking with it, and only then Dean _finally_ starts sinking in, still going tortuously slow, green eyes blown incredibly wide and mouth hanging open on a soundless gasp.

Castiel wraps his legs around Dean’s waist and cants his hips up, taking Dean even deeper, squeezing around him, pulling him closer, and they’re moving together, gazes locked, and Castiel still can’t get over the way Dean looks at him, like he can’t even believe what he’s seeing, like he’s watching a miracle happen right here before his eyes.

“Oh God, Cas. You…” It’s like Dean jolts awake. He snaps his hips forward, sharp and rough, setting up a fast, wild rhythm, completely different from the way he usually acts when he tops – slow and careful and always fully in control of himself. This abandon is new and so, so good, even though it’s tinted with just a hint of despair, the _last night on Earth_ hanging over them like the sword of Damocles, forcing them to move faster, push harder, claw deeper, grip tighter.

And Castiel will never get enough of this – Dean above him, a wild look of fierce concentration on his face, tight cords of shoulder and neck muscles standing out as he slams into Castiel with enough force to rattle the bed. Sweat is beading on his forehead, trickling down his nose, the salty droplets falling on Castiel like rain.

Suddenly Dean shudders and goes completely still, and Castiel can feel the hot flood of Dean’s release filling him. Dean collapses onto Castiel’s chest with a low, keening sound, and begs between breathless pants, “This isn’t over yet, I don’t want this to be over.”

“So let me.” Castiel rolls them around, Dean’s softening cock slipping out of him, and reaches for the lube again, slicked fingers slipping between their bodies and inside Dean. “Let me in.”

With a long, relieved sigh, Dean does, and their dance starts all over again.

They have less than five hours left, and they don’t waste a single second.

*

Still, time runs too fast, and too soon it forces them apart.

“You gotta come back, Cas,” Dean pleads when they’re showered and dressed and ready to go. This, in the bathroom, is their own personal goodbye, because there’s no way Dean would ever show this level of emotion and vulnerability in front of the others. “Please come back.”

“I will.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Dean draws back from their hug, putting more distance between them, and with every step he takes, his face becomes more and more of a mask, his posture going rigid. He’s putting on his armor, preparing himself, expecting to be hurt again.

Castiel doesn’t know a way how to convince Dean that won’t happen this time.

Aside from coming back and showing him, of course. Which is exactly what he’s planning to do.

*

Sam walks out of the room where they keep Crowley. He’s swaying on his feet, barely standing, and unsurprisingly, Dean immediately rushes to help him. It’s a sign of how exhausted Sam must be that he doesn’t even try to refuse Dean’s support, leaning on him heavily with a thankful nod.

“Here, eat this.” With his free hand, Dean takes out a candy bar out of his jeans pocket and offers it to his brother. “First aid.”

“Thanks, mom.” But even as he’s rolling his eyes at Dean’s trademark overprotectiveness, Sam’s already unpacking the treat and biting into it with a blissful moan.

“That’s what I like to see,” Dean pats his brother on the back lightly. “Now can we go see Crowley?”

“Sure,” Sam nods. “Just… try to be nice to him, okay? He’s been through a lot.”

“Yeah, my heart’s bleeding for the son of a bitch,” Dean grumbles as they walk back into the room, Castiel and Kevin right behind them.

Muriel is already there, sitting cross-legged on the cold concrete floor in front of the former demon, watching him as intensely he watches her.

When they enter the room, Crowley tears his gaze off Muriel and looks at them with reddened, puffy eyes, tear tracks drying on his face. “Hello, boys.”

Dean cocks his eyebrow in surprise. “What?”

Crowley lets out a shaky breath, as if he needs to gather strength to form longer sentences. Or the strength to keep his pain inside. “I’m human now, not retarded. This is still me, you know.”

But it isn’t, not entirely, and they can all see that.

“Are you gonna give us the blessing we need or not?” Dean asks coldly. He’s obviously not trying too hard on the _be nice to him_ front, but frankly, nobody really expected him to. Dean doesn’t forgive easily, not even when it comes to his closest friends and family, Castiel knows that painfully well.

In fact, Kevin even looks pleased when Crowley flinches at the harshness of Dean’s tone. There is a lot of hatred in the air here, a lot of bad blood.

Without taking her eyes off the former King of Hell, Muriel answers in his place. “Yes, he is. And it’s going to work.”

“And how do you know that?” Kevin is glaring daggers at Crowley who somehow seems to shrink under that hard stare.

“Because we can sense his pain and his regret. As could you if you opened your hearts,” Castiel replies and ignores the two derisive snorts that come from Dean and Kevin. This isn’t going to be easy. And it’s going to take time.

Pushing herself to her feet, Muriel asks for a cellphone and leaves the room briefly to call Ezekiel, not just to inform him that the Trials are about to be completed, but without doubt also to say goodbye.

Her muted voice coming from the outside corridor is the only sound in the room now, the atmosphere tense and heavy with the sacrifice Muriel's about to make. Nobody says a word.

Muriel comes back and hands the phone back to Sam. When their hands meet, she holds onto him and he pulls her into a hug. She turns to hug Kevin next, and then Dean, and finally Castiel. “I wish you luck, brother.”

“Thank you,” he whispers into the crook of her neck, holding her tight. “For everything.”

She pulls back and walks to kneel in front of Crowley. “Shall we?”

The chains tying the former demon to his chair rattle as he places his hand on Muriel’s head. “I give you my blessing, Muriel,” Crowley says softly, his voice barely audible but the words clear. Now she only has to say the ritual words and the Trials will be finished.

“Thank you.” Muriel stands up again and in an unusually human display of nervousness, tucks a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear and straightens a nonexistent crease on her blouse. She’s immaculate, inside and out, and in just a moment, she’s going to die.

She takes a deep breath and smiles, all the restlessness and fear washing away from her face until all that remains is calm and peace. “I’m ready.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After finally accomplishing something you've been trying to do for a very long time, the lost, helpless feeling of _Now what?_ usually arrives. Especially if one half of you is missing.

Muriel closes her eyes and in a strangely calm, detached voice – even for an angel – says the words required to complete the last Trial: “Kam-nah, varah-maan-dah, lam-poon.”

As soon as the words are uttered, her face twitches as if she’s in pain. But by the time her body hits the floor, the peaceful smile is back on her lips.

“Muriel? Muriel!” Sam goes to his knees next to her body, checking for pulse. After a while, he shakes his head. “She’s gone.”

Even though they knew this would happen, it doesn’t make her death any less painful, any less tragic. But still, all that Dean can think right now is _this could’ve been Sam, if I hadn’t talked him out of the Trials this would’ve been Sam_ , and even as he feels bad for it, he can’t fight back the rush of gratitude that Sam didn’t have to suffer the same fate as the cute blonde angel who sacrificed her life so the angels could go home.

Speaking of which… “Is that it? I didn’t feel any mojo in the air or anything.”

“Yeah,” Kevin speaks, unable to take his eyes off Muriel’s lifeless body even as he addresses his question to them, “Wasn’t something supposed to happen?”

Dean turns to Cas, waiting for an answer. “Right, Cas. Did it work?”

Instead of replying, Castiel disappears to the sound of flapping wings.

“Huh. I guess it did work, then.”

*

Muriel gets a hunter’s funeral, only three men standing by the funeral pyre because like most heroes, she dies without the world knowing about the greatness and importance of her final sacrifice.

Oddly enough, Dean doesn’t even try to hide how deeply he’s been affected by her death. Muriel was one of the nicest angels he’s ever met, and while that admittedly isn’t saying much, she was also one of the nicest _people_ he’s met.

As the flames lick up her body, Dean prays to whoever might listen that this is the last time he has to bury a friend.

And he prays to Cas to show up, or to at least give him some sign that he’s okay, that he’s still alive. But he gets no response.

***

One week later, and still no word from Cas. Or Zeke. Or any other angel, for that matter.

Not that Dean was expecting any different. Any number of things could be happening in Heaven now, from the best-case scenario of Zeke needing Cas’s help with keeping the angels in line, to the worst-case scenario of pissed off vengeful angels deciding to execute Cas and every angel associated with him. Better not to think about that at all.

The upside is that Metatron and his bunch of angelic besiegers are gone, too; their vessels found wandering around the bunker’s vicinity with no memory of how they got here or what happened over the course of the past few months. The same thing must’ve happened to all the other vessels, because all over the world, the media are full of reports on people suffering from amnesia. A small scare follows, but when no new occurrences of the “amnesia virus” appear, the panic subsides and the patients are gradually being released.

Dean visits some of the amnesiac patients in the Lebanon hospital, just to see if he’ll recognize anyone from Zeke’s pep rallies. He does, and he even finds Zeke’s vessel among them. The guy’s name is David, he’s a newspaper editor, single, with no family but his older and slightly grumpy sister who comes for him to take him home.

All in all, the whole situation could’ve ended much worse.

*

But even with the angels gone, there is lots of stuff that needs to be taken care of.

Like Crowley. After a few days of Sam’s insisting, Dean reluctantly lets himself be convinced that they don’t have to keep the ex-demon locked up anymore, so Crowley gets his own room, the one that used to be Zeke’s and then Muriel’s. The change of rooms makes practically no difference to Dean though because Crowley just continues his isolation voluntarily, staying in his room and avoiding all kinds of contact with the bunker’s other inhabitants save from Sam.

Not that Dean has a problem with that. Demon or no demon, Crowley’s still one dangerous, slimy son of a bitch (although he seems to be always wearing that _I’m falling apart at the seams but acting like everything’s fine_ expression that Dean is familiar with from seeing it the mirror) and Dean has no interest in becoming his new best friend. That spot is occupied by Sam, who takes to visiting Crowley each day, probably so they can hug and cry on each other’s shoulders about all the bad things they’ve done or whatever it is they’re doing in there.

Due to Crowley being out of lock-up, Kevin also refuses to leave his room, where he spends most of his time sulking, sleeping (which Dean totally approves of), eating junk food (which Dean approves of even more, just to see Sam’s disapproving face) or playing those weird fantasy games (by which Dean is mightily confused, but he figures the kid deserves some sort of a reward, so he lets it pass).

Dean spends a lot of time working on the Impala, checking every square inch of her to make sure that Metatron didn’t harm her. She seems to be fine, but he still works on her until she’s in perfect shape, clean and spotless and running as smoothly as she probably never has. And then he checks her again. And again, until Sam calls him on his unhealthy obsession with the car and tries to steer the conversation towards Cas. Unsuccessfully, of course.

Because Dean is resolutely, determinedly doing his best at _not_ thinking about Cas. At all. Because if he let himself think about why the hell hasn’t Cas made contact yet, what does the angel radio silence most probably mean, he might just break down completely.

Luckily if there’s one thing that Dean really excels at, it’s ignoring problems and pretending they don’t exist, so he keeps working on his car. Then on all the other cars and bikes in the bunker’s garage, with extra special care given to Dorothy’s ride. Then on cleaning the entire bunker until it’s pristine clean. Then on double-checking the bunker’s catalogues. Anything.

*

Nights are the hardest.

That’s when it all gets too much and all the defenses, all the walls Dean’s built inside his mind against the onslaught of _Cas_ , _where are you?_ , of _Cas, please be alive_ , and _Cas, why aren’t you here?_ start to crack and if he’s not careful, sometimes they crumble completely. And each morning it gets more and more difficult to rebuild them again.

Sometimes it gets so bad that Dean is just a hair’s breadth away from burying his face in Cas’s sleeping t-shirt to smell the angel’s faint scent that must still cling to it, and not giving a damn if it makes him the most pitiful, pathetic bastard to ever walk the Earth.

And it’s no wonder, really, considering that every night Dean has to slip into the bed that is too large, the space by his side cold and empty, and it all feels completely _wrong_. Which is ridiculous, because it’s not like Dean spent his whole life sharing a bed with someone, he’s only been with Cas for… what, six months? Which, okay, is so far the second longest-lasting relationship of Dean’s life, and Dean was kinda harboring that secret hope that it would soon become _the_ longest-lasting one, the _ever-lasting_ one, but…

God, he was so stupid to hope.

And the worst thing is that somewhere deep inside, in his heart, in his soul, Dean still hopes. He tells himself not to, tells himself he’s only gonna get kicked in the nuts by Fate again for tempting it, tells himself it would be so much easier just to accept that Cas is not coming back. But he just can’t accept that, not really, even though he lies to himself that he already has. He can’t. He wants Cas back too much for that.

*

“Sooner or later you’re gonna have to face the fact that he’s gone, Dean,” Sam tells him one afternoon when Dean’s in the kitchen, ordering the spice jars in alphabetical order. He ordered them by color yesterday and tomorrow he’s planning on doing it by frequency of use.

“Shut up.”

“You can’t just pretend nothing happened,” Sam tries again. “You did that after Dad died and you ended up smashing the Impala! Will you never learn?”

“Shut up.”

Throwing his hands up in the air, Sam backs off. “Fine. You wanna be an idiot, then please, by all means. But… if you ever wise up and feel like talking to somebody, you know I’m here. Okay?”

The thing is, Sam’s right. Dean can feel the aggression inside him growing again, the urge to lash out, punch people, smash furniture or the damn spice jars, throw them all against the wall and watch them break.

He should do that mediation stuff Cas taught him, that would probably help, but then again it probably wouldn’t because meditation would mean thinking about Cas, about Cas’s voice guiding Dean through it, about Cas’s proud smile when Dean’s done well… No, not going there. So, no meditation.

The punching bag it is, then.

Dean doesn’t bother with changing into his workout clothes, just heads straight to the gym, straight to the bag, and starts going at it with all he’s got. He lets himself get lost in the mindless violence of it, in the pain of his raw, bleeding knuckles. Sam is gonna bitch at him about that later, but that doesn’t matter now, the only important thing is that in moments like this, when Dean’s completely immersed in what he’s doing, the constant ache that’s settled inside him the moment Cas left eases off, even if just a little, and just for a little while.

And so he goes on, using his fists to punish the bag for everything that’s wrong with the world, letting his frustration and pain bleed out of him, until he’s completely drained of energy, mind and body going numb.

His knees buckle then and he crumples to the floor in a somewhat controlled fall, sitting there motionless and trying to catch his breath, his heartbeat loud in his own ears, raw knuckles throbbing. The heavy punching bag is still swinging in the air, the weak gusts of wing as it repeatedly passes Dean’s head cooling the sweat on his skin.

An indefinite amount of time passes, Dean still lost in this blissfully blank, empty state of mind, and then he’s torn right out of it when the gym door swings open and Kevin strides in, heading straight to the punching bag just as Dean had, apparently so lost in his thoughts that he only notices Dean when he nearly trips over him. “Oh. You’re here.”

“Yeah.” Dean moves a bit further from the bag in case Kevin starts hitting it and leans his back against the nearest wall. “Just gimme a minute and I’ll leave you to it.”

“Okay.”

That’s when he notices that Kevin is even more taciturn and withdrawn than normally and that the redness in his eyes doesn’t seem to be of the _spent too much time reading_ kind. “Kevin. What’s wrong?”

The kid steals one wistful look at the punching bag, but then he sighs and sits down next to Dean. From the close distance, Dean’s initial guess that Kevin’s been crying is confirmed.

Kevin doesn’t appear to be too keen on pouring his heart out to Dean though, and Dean’s just fine with that, he’s not gonna force him to open up. Practice what you preach and all that.

So they sit in silence.

“The not knowing, that’s the worst,” Kevin says finally, his voice flat and emotionless in that way that signals there’s actually plenty of emotion bubbling just beneath the surface and Kevin’s trying his best to push it down. “The uncertainty, the constant doubts. You want to let go, but you can’t because you can’t be sure she’s really gone, and it’s killing you inside. But you just can’t let go.”

He’s talking about his mother, Dean realizes, suddenly understanding where this is going. Dread starts to pool in his stomach. “You spoke with Crowley.”

“I couldn’t stand it anymore. I figured he wouldn’t lie to me now.”

“And?”

“She’s dead, Dean. She’s really dead.” Tears start to roll down Kevin’s face. The kid looks so small, so lost, that Dean doesn’t even think about what he’s doing, just shifts towards Kevin and wraps one arm around him, pulls him close. Kevin goes, probably too tired to fight it, and rests his head against Dean’s shoulder. “My mom’s dead,” he chokes out between broken sobs, his whole body shaking, “and I thought it would be easier now that I know it, but it’s not. It’s not.”

There’s nothing Dean can say to that. Not unless he wants to use that _time heals all wounds_ crap – even if it’s actually true, it doesn’t mean it’s something Kevin would want to hear right now.

Because time… well, it takes _time_. And long before it actually gets better, it just _hurts_.

***

Things get a bit easier when Crowley leaves the bunker, driving off with Garth who somehow doesn’t mind helping the former King of Hell find redemption. How did the hunter survive so long and stay so impossibly friendly, Dean has no idea.

Kevin stops skulking in his room after that, and without Crowley around he feels safe enough to let Sam and Dean work cases again, which helps a lot with taking Dean’s mind off that _thing_ he’s not thinking about.

Instead, he focuses his attention on putting his secret plan regarding Sam’s future into motion. Because he hasn’t forgotten what Sam told him last year, about how when the tablets and Trials business is over, Sam’s done with hunting for good. _Dean, the year that I took off, I had something I've never had_ , he’d said. _A normal life. I mean, I got to see what that felt like. I want that_.

And Dean remembers that, and he wants that for Sam, too.

To pave the way for succeeding with his plan, Dean starts actively working on researching their cases, doing all the brainy stuff he usually leaves to Sam on top of the more physical stuff he normally does himself. He does it to prove two points to Sam: firstly, that Dean is perfectly capable of doing his own research if he wants to, and secondly, that research is Sam’s favorite part of hunting and when he’s denied it, he gets bored and cranky and loses practically all interest in the job.

If that doesn’t make the geeky Sasquatch doubt his choice of career, nothing will.

And yeah, it seems to be working, because when Dean tells Sam for the fifth time in a row that he’s got the research covered, Sam demonstrates an exemplary bitchface and mutters “If you don’t need me on the hunts anymore, maybe I should stop going.”

“Maybe you should,” Dean replies, making it very clear with his expression and his tone that he’s not being ironic or sarcastic about this, that he’s dead serious. “Now’s probably the best time to leave the business if you want to.”

Sam looks at him dumbly, face unreadable, before he shrugs. “Maybe, yeah. But it’s not like…”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Okay.” Sam goes back to staring sulkily at the TV in the motel room, acting like the conversation didn’t happen, but Dean can see the wheels spinning in that freaky head. The idea’s been planted, now Dean only has to wait.

***

Three days later, the morning news are full of reports on white, blinding lights that drive black smoke out of people’s mouths. A little bit of investigating from Sam and Dean shows that all the victims were demon meatsuits. The only possible explanation is angels, killing demons in their true form without taking vessels again.

That has to be good news, right?

*

When Dean’s getting ready for bed that night, he suddenly hears the familiar flap of wings and Cas is there, standing by the bed, wearing his black suit and the trench coat and the blue tie, the whole holy accountant attire, and he’s smiling sheepishly as he says in that deep, rough voice, “Hello, Dean.”

Body acting before his brain can catch up and stop it – and not that he would – Dean moves across the room and lands a very spectacular punch on Cas’s chin. It’s like driving your fist into a wall.

“Shit!” Oh, right, Dean remembers now – punching an angel is never a good idea. His fist hurts like a motherfucker but Dean pushes that aside, righteous anger helping him against the pain. “ _Hello, Dean_? You’ve been MIA for nearly three weeks, and now all you’ve got to say is _Hello, Dean_?”

Dark eyebrows knit together in puzzlement and if Dean wasn’t mightily pissed right now, he’d probably find it really cute. “You never expressed discontent with this greeting before.”

This is outrageous. “Cas, don’t provoke me or I’ll punch you again.”

“You’d only hurt yourself more.”

“Yeah, so don’t tempt me!”

Cas looks completely at loss for what he’s doing wrong, but he nods meekly. “Alright.” Then suddenly horror flashes across his face. “Three weeks?”

“Yeah, Cas. Three weeks. Three fucking weeks of constant worrying, of not knowing whether you were alive or dead, whether they weren’t torturing you until you became their good little soldier again…” As he gets more and more worked up, Dean loses it and punches Cas again.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Cas admonishes him after he fixes the shattered and/or fractured bones with his magical healing touch.

Dean steps back, not trusting himself with Cas at such a close distance. “Yeah, well. You shouldn’t have kept me in the dark for so long.”

At least now Cas has the decency to look repentant, hanging his head in shame before glancing up sheepishly, blue eyes partially hidden underneath thick eyelashes. “I hadn’t realized so much time has passed.”

“Oh, really.” Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets and glares hard. He’s not going to relent so easily, not this time.

“Returning to Heaven was… overwhelming.” Cas tugs at his tie nervously, fiddling with the blue piece of fabric. “I must’ve lost track of time. We all did. There was much to discuss, much work to be done. A lot of talking, parlaying and politics.” He chuckles softly. “Even Ezekiel was running out of patience.”

“Huh. Can’t imagine that.” Zeke is practically patience personified.

“There are still many different factions,” Cas continues after a short but awkward silence. “Not all of them share Ezekiel’s vision of Heaven. The peace talks were exhausting. But we reached some sort of agreement in the end. It wasn’t easy, and the truce is very unstable for now, but this is just the beginning. Angels aren’t used to self-government, to autonomy. But they’re learning.”

“So you really think it’s gonna work this time?” Dean asks, although he doesn’t really care for the answer at this point, doesn’t care about Heaven or Hell, only about the one particular angel standing in front of him.

Cas gives a smile at that. “I have faith in Ezekiel’s abilities.”

“Okay. Good, that’s… that’s good.” Dean’s palms are sweaty, so he wipes them on his pants. “So… I guess the demon smiting was your work, then?”

“Yes. That’s one of the two things almost everyone agreed on. We cleansed the Earth of all demons, sent them back to Hell. It won’t be easy for them to crawl back topside again.”

“And the second thing?”

For a split second, something ugly and scary as hell mars Castiel’s features. “Punishing Metatron.” He doesn’t say more, doesn’t elaborate, but the darkness in his voice is enough for Dean. It’s pretty clear Metatron’s not a threat anymore, and that’s all Dean needs to hear on the subject. There’s something else that he needs to hear now.

“So, uh…” He doesn’t want to ask but he has to, because the waiting, the uncertainty, is killing him. “Coming back to Heaven… how’d it feel?” And his voice doesn’t even tremble when he says that, that’s how good he is.

If Castiel notices Dean’s anxiety, he doesn’t comment on it. “It felt like home.”

It’s like a stab wound to Dean’s heart, but it’s one he’s kinda been expecting and so he manages to keep his face friendly and his voice steady as he says, “That’s great, Cas. I’m real happy for you.”

Eyes narrowing, Castiel subjects Dean to one of those all-knowing, soul-searching, impossibly intense gazes. “You stupid son of a bitch,” the angel growls finally and walks – no, not walks, teleports himself in a sudden gust of wind right into Dean’s space, and then they’re kissing, or more like trying to devour each other, and it’s so good it hurts, and Dean never wants it to stop.

It does stop, though, with Castiel breaking the kiss and stepping back so he can look at Dean. His eyes are blown wide with passion, but also with anger. “You thought I changed my mind about you, that I only came back to say goodbye. You thought I was going to stay in Heaven.”

Dean shrugs. It’s not like he was sure Cas would leave him behind, because frankly, the idea _is_ kinda stupid, considering all that Cas has done for him, for _them_. Dean knows that. But as time went by, as days without hearing from Cas turned into weeks, all of Dean’s self-doubts and fears and insecurities started gnawing at him in the dark of the night, prowling, circling him and drawing near, like the red-eyed monsters on Dean’s first night in Purgatory. “You said it yourself. Heaven felt like home.”

“Of course it did,” Cas growls, making Dean shiver with both arousal and almost-fear. “It used to be my home, for millennia.”

“Used to?”

Castiel sighs and makes a grimace, and Dean notices that his fingers are twitching almost as if the angel was fighting the urge to throttle him. “You’re so dense sometimes. How many times do I have to explain it until you finally get it through that thick skull of yours that when I said I wanted to stay with you I actually meant it? Heaven may have felt like home before, but not anymore. _You_ are my home, Dean.”

“But–“

“No buts.” Castiel places a finger on Dean’s mouth, silencing him. “Stop doing this to yourself, to _us_. Stop putting words into my mouth. Stop doubting your own worth. It’s time you start believing.”

“In us?”

“In us.”

What Cas is asking of him isn’t exactly easy, but if he believes it and Dean believes Cas, then… “Okay.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth twitches in amusement. “Okay?”

“Yeah, I said okay, okay? Can we end the chick flick moment, please? Can’t you just kiss me again already?”

And so they kiss, hungry and insatiable at first, slow and thorough and lazy later when they lie entwined on the bed that finally feels the right size again.

***

Kevin and Sam are sitting at the table in the library, looking confused, expectant and slightly worried.

Dean scratches at the back of his head and clears his throat. His own talk with Cas gave him some inspiration as to how to lead this conversation, but he’s still pretty nervous. He really doesn’t want to fuck this up. “Okay. You’re probably wondering why I–“

“Just spill it already,” Sam interrupts him impatiently.

“Okay.” After clearing his throat again, because apparently he’s more affected by this than he thought he would, Dean speaks. “I’ve been thinking. About you two, about what are you gonna do now.”

Sam’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “What do you mean? We’re back to hunting, the family business.”

“No, Sammy. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, alright? You don’t have to. And neither do you,” he turns to Kevin. “Look, Abaddon’s dead, Metatron’s gone.  Crowley’s out of the picture and all the demons are back in Hell. It’s not gonna get much better than that. So this is your way _out_.”

Kevin stares at him as if Dean’s speaking another language. “Out of what?”

“Out of hunting, for God’s sake! Out of this messed up, violent, bloody life!” With a raised hand, Dean stops them from interrupting him. “You didn’t ask for this, neither of you did. You’ve been pulled into this life against your will, and you never stopped wanting out. You don’t belong here. You belong to school, with girlfriends and then families and the freaking suburbs, with dogs and kids and barbecues on Saturdays!”

“I don’t think there’s a way out,” Kevin shakes his head. “It’s never gonna end.”

Dean slams his palms on the table, making them both flinch. “Yeah, it is. If you want it bad enough, if you fight for it. Come on! There are no more tablets, no more Trials, no more demons looking for you, Kev. And if you wanna be 100 % sure and safe, you can use that masking glamor spell we found in the library so nobody will recognize you.”

“You mean like… I could go back to school? For real?” Kevin asks tentatively, like he doesn’t want to believe it, like he’s afraid to. Dean knows that feeling well. In this line of work, it’s really easy to lose hope. And that’s why Dean wants these two to get out.

“I think Dean’s right,” Sam steps in. “Nobody’s looking for you anymore, and it’s not like we wouldn’t keep an eye on you anyway. And you can’t exactly keep hiding here forever.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, thankful for Sam’s help. “Can’t become the first Asian-American President of the United States if you spend your life hidden in a bunker, can you?”

That gets a small chuckle out of the kid. “Yeah, right.”

“I mean it, Kevin.” Dean pulls up a chair and sits down next to him, leaning forward to look into his eyes. “You’re way too smart to be a hunter. And you’re still young, you have all your life ahead of you. A normal life. If you want out, now’s your chance. So please, take it.”

Kevin takes his time before he answers. “I better go finish writing that College Admission Essay I started two years ago.”

Relief coursing through his veins, Dean claps the kid on the shoulder and grins. “Yeah, you do that.”

Kevin’s already almost out of the room when he turns to look back at them. His eyes are shimmering with tears. “Thanks, guys.”

“Sure.” Once Kevin is out of the door, Dean turns his attention to Sam. “I was talking to both of you.”

The soft smile that occupied Sam’s face melts away. “Yeah, I kinda got that. You’ve been dropping all these hints for the past few weeks or so, or maybe longer. I noticed, you know.”

“And?”

Sam shrugs. “And, what?”

“So, you gonna do it? Go back to school? Stop hunting?”

Sam’s response is an incredulous laugh. “You gonna tell me I’m too smart for hunting too? That I’ve got my whole life ahead of me?”

“Damn straight I am!” This is getting frustrating pretty fast; Dean is really starting to understand why Cas always gets annoyed with Dean’s pessimistic or self-deprecating moods. “Don’t tell me you don’t want out of this life, because I know you do. It’s why I let you do the Trials, remember? Because you saw the end at the end of the tunnel, because you wanted to close Hell and be done with it. And that’s also why I talked you out of finishing the Trials, that’s why you agreed to let it go. Because you wanted that normal, happy, apple pie life. And you still do.”

“Dean–“

“Just let me finish.” When Sam gives a slightly reluctant nod, Dean continues. “When I was in Purgatory, you were ready to leave this life behind, and then I dragged you back into it. Again. But not anymore, Sam. So, the same thing I said to Kevin goes for you. You’ve got your chance. Go back to Stanford, become a lawyer so you can help people. Or try something else, whatever you want, just take it. You’re the smartest person I know, and the strongest, most capable and determined. Sammy, you could do anything you want.”

Sam smiles at that, a little sad. “So could you, Dean.”

“I know that. But Sam, the hunt… it’s in my blood. It’s what I am. I’m not saying I never had any doubts about that, but in the end, this is what I wanna do. I wanna drive my car and shoot my guns and help people. I’m damn good at it, too.”

“Yeah, you are. Doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it.”

“But I want to!” Is it really that difficult to understand? Well, it probably is, so Dean tries to explain. “Look, I thought about it, okay? A lot. And not just now, but before, too. Back when I took that year off with Lisa and Ben, after I gave you that promise that I’d stay away from the supernatural crap. And I was gonna keep my promise, but working at that construction site… I hated it. And I hated all the other jobs I worked that year, and I that helped me figure out what I’d wanna do if I couldn’t hunt anymore.”

“What?”

“I’d still want to protect people, keep them away from danger.” It sounds a bit pretentious, but it’s the truth. “So… search and rescue, firefighter, maybe even a cop. ‘Cause there’s all kinds of monsters, and not nearly all of them go to Purgatory when they die.”

Sam nods slightly in agreement at that. He’s listening, and if Dean phrases his words right, he might be able to convince him that this is really alright.

“I know there’ve been times when I got tired of the job, when I only went back to it because I had to.” Because of Sam when he was at Sonny’s. Because of Dad when Sam left for Stanford, so Dad wouldn’t have to hunt alone. Because of Sam again after he got back from the Cage. “But it’s not like that anymore. I know I don’t have to do this, but I want to. It’s my choice, okay?”

“Okay. So, let’s say I leave, go back to school. Am I just supposed to be worrying 24/7, waiting for a call from some coroner who examined your dead body?” Sam snorts and shakes his head. “Or better yet, no call at all, because there will be nothing left of your body to find? I couldn’t live like that.”

“You don’t have to worry, Sam. I’ll keep him safe.” Cas stands in the doorway, watching them with a fond smile.

Dean can’t resist retorting, “I thought you said you weren’t here to perch on my shoulder.”

“Well, I changed my mind. Because I like your shoulders.” And with a provocative wink that makes Dean blush, the angel leaves them alone again.

Sam is trying hard not to laugh. “Don’t look so offended, Dean. He complimented you.”

“Oh, stop it.”

A moment of silence.

“So?”

Sam doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what Dean is asking this time. “I… I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Great.” Dean feels as if a heavy load has just been taken off his shoulders. “But don’t take too long. Course enrollment for the spring quarter at Stanford ends on March 21.”

Sam gapes. “You want me to go _now_?”

“Don’t see a reason why not. Kevin too. You can take just a couple of courses, ease back into the academic life, decide what you wanna do. Then take a full course load in the fall.”

Sam still gapes.

“What? I’ve done some research.” And he can’t fight the smug smile that’s playing on his lips. “You’ll have to reapply for admission, but seeing as you were apparently the local genius, I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“You really want me to go, you’re really okay with this,” Sam whispers disbelievingly, as if he only now fully realized what is going on, and he can’t quite believe it’s really happening.

Not that Dean exactly blames him. The last time Sam wanted to go back to college Dean begged him to stay, and now he’s practically begging him to go. “What can I say, Sammy. Things have changed. _I_ ’ve changed, I guess.”

“You still want me to be happy.”

“Yeah.” Dean looks away, unable to stand Sam’s gaze. “That ain’t ever gonna change.”

“I want you to be happy too, Dean.”

“I am. Really.” He forces himself to look up and meet Sam’s eyes again. Sam is kinda tearful, but then, so is Dean. “I have more than I ever hoped for. A place to call home. You and Kevin becoming civilians again, safe and following your dreams. And I have Cas …” Oh fuck, and now he’s really gonna start crying.

Sam saves the situation and the remains of Dean’s dignity: “And don’t forget the leftover pie in the fridge.”

“Yeah, and there’s that.” It’s weird, laughing through his tears. “See? I’m good. We’re good. It’s all gonna be good.”

“Good enough for a hug?” Sam is already standing up, arms outstretched.

“Yeah.” Dean gets up from his chair. “C’mere.”

Like always, Sam nearly knocks the air out of Dean when he wraps those monstrous arms around him, but like always, Dean doesn’t mind at all. Especially when he feels Sam’s warm breath on his neck as Sam whispers, “Thank you, Dean.”

“Always, little brother.”

***

By the end of the month, Sam and Kevin are both at school. Dean drove them both himself, checked their respective campuses for any kind of supernatural danger, personally made sure that everything is safe, ignored their annoyed and embarrassed sighs at his overprotectiveness and hugged them goodbye before driving back to Kansas.

The bunker is too empty now, too quiet without them, the silence telling Dean and Cas loud and clear that it’s time to hit the road again.

“I’m gonna miss our bed,” Dean sits on the mattress and pats it affectionately. He hopes it will remember him when he comes back. They’re not leaving this place for good after all, it’s still gonna serve as the base of their operation, like Bobby’s _Salvage Yard_. If Bobby could pull it off so can they.

“I’m gonna miss the water pressure,” Cas adds, sitting next to Dean. “And the library. It’s very comforting.”

“And the shooting range.”

“Not Room 4C, though.”

A shudder runs through Dean. “Definitely not.”

Their bags are packed, the bunker’s locked and secured, the Impala is waiting outside.

Standing up, Dean lets his gaze wander around their bedroom one last time before his eyes unavoidably gravitate towards Cas, like they always do. He still can’t believe his luck, can’t believe that the angel is actually doing this, with him, that he wants to. It’s way too good to be true and Dean just keeps expecting to wake up the next minute and find out this was all just a dream. “Ow!”

Cas offers an innocent look. “See? Not a dream.”

“You pinched me!” And on the face, to top it all.

“Yes, I did,” the son of a bitch agrees smugly, no sign of remorse.

“Kiss it better?”

“You’re such a baby,” Cas says good-naturedly before leaning over to plant a soft peck on Dean’s cheek, soothing the tender skin. “There. All better.”

Not feeling entirely satisfied, Dean turns his head slightly so their lips meet in a more proper kiss, humming his approval into Cas’s mouth. He pulls back after a while though, reluctant to break the moment but at the same time eager to set off already. The road is calling him. “Come on, it’s time to go.”

They walk through the bunker’s corridors and staircases, shutting the lights off as they go. They lock the front door and take the key with them. They drop their bags into the trunk and get inside the Impala.

She rumbles into life at Dean’s command, and soon they’re on the open highway. Dean keeps one hand at the wheel, the other resting lightly on Cas’s leg.

It doesn’t really feel like leaving home at all.

 

***

 

Sheriff Jessica Donahue looks up from her desk when she hears her name spoken in a deep male voice. “Yes?”

Two tall and very good-looking men in black suits are standing over her desk, one green-eyed and with lips like sin, the other slightly shorter, blue-eyed and cute as an angel.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

The taller and broader of the two speaks again as they show her their FBI badges. “I’m Special Agent Crosby, this is my partner, Special Agent Stills, and we’re here about the unexplained disappearances in your town.”

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who stayed with this story until the end, to everyone who left kudos or commented. Hopefully you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Thank you.


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